The Legion of Flame

FIERY DESTRUCTION ENGULFS SANORAH DOCKS Many Ships Burned and Sunk at Anchor Riots Erupt in the Dockside Identity of “Blessed Demon” Revealed by Our Correspondent

Last night saw our great city of Sanorah subject to a level of destruction not seen since the eruption of civil discord following the collapse of the Blood Bubble some eighty-six years ago. Whilst loyal readers of the Intelligencer will be familiar with this paper’s tireless dedication to honest reporting, the exact series of events which resulted in last night’s calamity have yet to be established and some of the confirmed facts are certain to arouse incredulity. We must, therefore, appeal to our readers’ trust that they are being presented with the unalloyed truth.

At approximately fifteen minutes past the tenth hour on the 23rd of Rosellum a large conflagration erupted in the warehouse district abutting the Sanorah Dockside. The flames spread quickly from building to building, the intensity of the blaze being blamed, at least partly, on the fact that many warehouses had been stocked to full capacity. The crash in markets arising from what the Ironship Syndicate continues to refer to as the “Arradsian incident” has compelled many companies to hoard stocks of consumables against future shortages. Chief amongst these consumables are lamp oil and sugar, both highly caloric substances which undoubtedly did much to fuel the unfolding inferno.

By the eleventh hour at least two-thirds of the warehouse district was aflame along with a sizable portion of the Dockside buildings. Only valiant efforts by the Sonora Fire Watch, augmented by the City Constabulary, prevented the fire from spreading into residential environs. For a time it appeared that the blaze might be contained and the damage, whilst severe, would at least have been manageable. It is at this point in the narrative that your humble correspondent must ask his readers to trust the veracity of the subsequent account. Incredible though it may appear, I can only attest with simple honesty that what follows is the unexpurgated truth as witnessed by my own eyes.

Having been roused from my slumber at some point past the 10th hour by the general discord rising beyond my bedroom window, I proceeded, as all dutiful correspondents must, to the scene of the action. On reaching the Dockside my progress was impeded by a cordon of City Constabulary who were stringent in forbidding any closer approach. Fortunately, I espied a near by crane and duly made good my ascent to its topmost platform whereupon I found myself afforded a most excellent view of the dreadful spectacle below. A single glance proved sufficient to confirm the loss of most of the warehouses, the centre of the inferno blazing with such intensity that to look upon it pained the eyes. However, I could see the hoses of the Fire Watch hard at work on the fringes of the blaze and at that instant it appeared well contained and unlikely to pose further danger to the wider metropolis.

Then she appeared.

Regular readers will know well this correspondent’s repeated scepticism with regard to the so-called “Blessed Demon” said to have conducted a fiery rampage through the Marsh Wold and beyond in recent months. It is therefore with great humility that I must now attest that this monster is in fact all too real.

She came striding out of the smoke that covered the wharf beyond the constables’ cordon, tall and straight of back, one might even call her bearing elegant but for the rags she wore. The raging fire at her back cast her face in shadow but for a single instant. Just as she fixed her gaze upon the line of constables and called forth the fire in her veins, her face became clear and it was a face I knew well.

I know not whether it was the shock of recognition that froze me to the spot, or witnessing the horror of her unnatural flames consuming the servants of the law. In either case I must confess to a moment of absolute immobility in both mind and body as I stood and looked upon none other than Miss Catheline Dewsmine.

I should like to report that the face I looked upon was that of a madwoman—a cackling, wild-eyed hag bent on mindless havoc. But that was not the case. The countenance I beheld was not one of insanity, but serenity. In the past I had many occasions to look upon the face of Catheline Dewsmine and often felt there to be a certain artifice to those finely made features. Her smile strained a fraction, her eyebrow arched a little too high bespeaking a well-concealed contempt. I saw no such artifice now. The woman I watched commit mass murder was possessed of a contented certainty the like of which I have never witnessed in another human being.

She saw me as the last constable writhed his final agonies, glancing up to regard the solitary statue of a man standing atop a crane and pondering the imminence of mortality. I assume it was the certainty of my doom that unfroze me, a desire to meet my end with at least a semblance of dignity. So, standing as straight as I could I called down to her with the only greeting that came to mind: “Miss Dewsmine. Are you well?”

She stood regarding me in silence for some time, long enough in fact for a thick sheen of sweat to form upon my flesh as the inferno crept closer. Then she spoke, and I must report that as her face was absent any madness, so too was her voice. It was, in fact, the same rich, melodious voice I recalled from so many society gatherings.

“I am very well, thank you, Mr. Talwick,” she greeted me in return. “And you, sir?”

“In point of truth, miss,” I replied, somewhat startled by my own poise, “I must confess to a modicum of alarm at this very moment.”

“Alarm?” she enquired, then gave a small laugh of realisation. “Oh yes, my little diversion,” she went on, casting a glance at the encroaching flames. “I’m afraid I shall have to crave your forgiveness, sir. But necessity has spurred me to some . . . excesses of late.”

“Necessity, miss?” I enquired, my gaze taking in the measure of her form. Underneath all the soot she remained as beautiful as ever, if noticeably thinner and clad in what appeared to be the torn and tattered remnants of a dress more suited to a high-status ball than a scene of wanton destruction.

“Yes indeed,” she replied. “A most pressing and important matter.” At this point she felt it appropriate to offer an apologetic smile. “One which requires me to cut this pleasant interlude short.”

“I see,” I said, standing straighter still and compelling my gaze to meet hers.

“Oh, don’t concern yourself, Mr. Talwick,” she assured me and I noticed a familiar arch to her brows, the form they adopted when she found herself in the company of one she knew to be her social and intellectual inferior. “I should like people to know, you see,” she continued, waving an elegant hand at the blazing storm now barely ten feet from where she stood. “It’s only fair after all.”

“Know what, miss?” I enquired, my previous poise quickly eroding towards panic.

“Why, what’s coming of course,” she told me. “I believe it will make things so much more entertaining, in time. And with that, sir”—she gave a brisk smile and inclined her head—“I must bid you a fond farewell.”

Then she was gone, transformed into a blur in the thickening smoke, no doubt the result of a recent intake of Green. Any hopes she may have vanished for good were soon dashed by the sounds of alarm rising from the harbour itself. I turned to see fire blossoming from the deck of a freighter moored twenty yards from my position. Then a few moments later a great gout of flame rose from the vessel’s stack and a boom shook her from bow to stern, a boom that told of an exploding boiler. A few heart-beats later and another ship took light with similar results, then another until it seemed as if every vessel moored at the quay-side was wreathed in flame.

I cannot attest to the full horror of what unfolded in the harbour that night, preoccupied as I was with climbing down from my imperilled perch in order to make good my escape from the advancing conflagration. Suffice to say that the scale of destruction being wrought on those ships at anchor compelled the harbour-master to raise the gate and allow the surviving vessels to sail clear. This also had the beneficial effect of permitting the tidal waters to wash over the quay and extinguish the inferno before more damage could be done. Unfortunately, this in turn resulted in the flooding of dozens of homes fringing the Dockside District thereby providing an impetus for the riots that have been raging in our city for much of today.

No trace of Catheline Dewsmine has been found, although the appointed Protectorate investigators have assured this correspondent that exhaustive efforts are being employed to hunt her down. However, it is this correspondent’s opinion that such efforts will prove fruitless, for I believe the “Blessed Demon” is no longer within their reach. Enquiries at the harbour-master’s office reveal that six vessels were destroyed at anchor in Sanorah Harbour and twenty-three others are known to have escaped through the opened door. Of these only twenty-two have been subsequently accounted for. One vessel, the South Seas Maritime passenger liner the SSM Northern Star, has not returned to port and her whereabouts are unknown.

A full accounting of casualties has yet to be made public but it can safely be assumed to be in the hundreds. The Dockside District is now blackened wasteland and the cost in commerce and revenue so enormous as to defy easy calculation. And yet, your humble correspondent is forced to entertain the notion that what he witnessed the previous night was but a portent. Catheline Dewsmine, risen from death and rendered monstrous by means unknown has escaped this continent and gone to complete her “most pressing and important matter.” It is this correspondent’s grim duty to report his firm suspicion that we have not yet seen the last of her.

Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—23rd Rosellum 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.

CHAPTER 34

Clay

His left hand scraped over ten feet of bare rock before finding purchase on a shallow fissure barely an inch wide. Clay shouted as the shock of his arrested tumble jolted through his arm to his shoulder, threatening to dislodge his grip. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into the fissure, ignoring the pain and the wet rush of blood that told of a displaced finger-nail or two.

He hung there, dragging air into his lungs and fighting panic. Loriabeth kept calling his name from atop the cliff, becoming more shrill with each plaintive cry. Clay’s mind raced through various escape scenarios, none of which seemed to offer much prospect of success. The wallet containing his product sat in the right inside pocket of his jacket, meaning he would have to engage in some frantic manoeuvring to recover it. Even should he manage to retrieve it without separating himself from the cliff, the chances of getting it open and safely extracting a vial were remote. He considered attempting a descent, but a few careful probes with his dangling feet revealed an absence of ledges where he might find purchase. To add insult to his predicament the burnt and severed end of the rope dangled only a few feet above his head. Clay glared up at it in a spasm of helpless reproach, an emotion that soon turned to alarm when he saw a bright bead of blood swelling on the blackened stub. It wasn’t his blood.

He could see the Black’s severed neck dangling above, emitting a crimson cascade that coursed down the face of the cliff and inevitably found its way onto the rope. He watched as the bead detached from the rope and descended towards him, impacting on the upper side of his forehead. Had he been un-Blessed there would have been a hard jab of flaming agony as the blood met his skin. Instead, the undiluted substance produced just a warm wet tap, no doubt leaving a pale and permanent reminder in his flesh for the rest of his life, however short that proved to be in the current circumstance. Strangely, the bead’s fall brought a new clarity to his thoughts, banishing the panic and allowing a certain realisation to dawn.

Black. He raised his gaze, watching another red bead swelling on the rope’s ragged end. Black for the push . . . But what to push? The wild notion of employing Black to move his own body blossomed then died immediately. No Blood-blessed had ever successfully accomplished such a feat, and those that tried had merely gifted the world with a spectacular new form of suicide. It was an early-learned lesson for all those who shared the Blessing: Black never flows inward. And there ain’t nothing to push, he concluded with a sigh, slumping against the unyielding rock, then frowning as another notion came to mind. Nothing . . . ’cept the cliff.

He levered himself back from the cliff-face as gently as he could, eyes exploring the rock. The fissure into which he had thrust his hand was part of a long crack that narrowed as it descended, Clay finding it extended nearly the length of his body. He could see it was in fact the edge of a narrow protrusion in the cliff, a thin slab of rock that might well come loose with enough prodding.

Another wet peck at his forehead returned his attention to the rope. It was now red from end to end, the blood winding along its braids in thick rivulets to birth a steady stream of droplets. Clay craned his neck and opened his mouth wide, letting the product flow down his throat. He had thought the taste of undiluted Green would be the worst thing ever to befoul his mouth, but it transpired that raw Black was an order of magnitude worse. He gagged as the thick, acrid liquid burned its way past his tongue and gullet before finding his belly, then shuddered at the instant upsurge of nausea. He forced himself to keep drinking, despite the spasm that began to make his whole body vibrate. He needed all he could stomach if this was to work.

He finally stopped when his guts threatened to throw up most of what he had drunk, closing his mouth and flattening himself against the cliff to avoid the continuing torrent of blood. After a few moments to recover his strength he eased himself back and concentrated his gaze on the crack in the rock just below his now-benumbed hand. He tried using just a small amount of Black to begin with, seeking to widen the crack just a little. The rock, however, proved unyielding and his efforts produced only a few flakes of displaced stone. Clay steeled himself against a new wave of fear and prepared to unleash half the Black in a single blast. It’s this or a long drop into nothing.

The result was immediate, the fissure widening by a foot as a cloud of splintered rock erupted around him with a crack like the snapping of a giant’s thigh-bone. The thin slab of stone came away from the cliff so fast it nearly proved fatal. Clay had no time to think, letting go of the slab as it came loose for just an instant as he reached out to grab it with the Black, then scrabbling to regain purchase as it hung in mid air. He held on with a light grip, uncertain of how the Black would affect an object subject to direct contact. He lessened the flow of Black, utilising every scrap of skill he had to concentrate the power on the centre of the slab then shifting his weight so that it slowly began to revolve. Sweat poured into his eyes as he fought to maintain the intense pitch of concentration needed to keep the slab horizontal. His body ached in protest as he slowly got to his feet, allowing himself a small grin of triumph. He was standing on a free-floating platform, a feat never before accomplished by another Blood-blessed, at least as far as he knew.

He looked up, finding the rope still out of reach. He tried using Black to elevate the slab to the required height but it gave an alarming shudder when he made the attempt. Must be too close to it, he realised. Well that’s a quandary. It took a few moments pondering before the solution occurred, whereupon he crouched as low as he dared and jumped straight up, using Black to raise the slab to meet his feet before he descended. He had only ascended about a foot but it was better than nothing. Repeated jumps brought the end of the rope within reach, but he kept going for as long as the Black would allow, wary of grasping the blood-slicked lower end. Finally, as he felt the last vestiges of Black fade from his veins, he took a final jump and gripped the unbloodied stretch of rope just above the drake’s headless corpse.

He watched the displaced slab of cliff tumble away below to shatter on the shingle beach, hearing the dim cheers of his companions above.

“Just hang on, cuz!” Loriabeth called to him. “We’ll haul you the rest of the way.”

“Wait!” he yelled back, turning to the dead Black. Riches not to be ignored. “Got something to do first!”

The Black’s corpse lay on a broad ledge protruding from a deep cave in the stone. Recalling Skaggerhill’s lessons, Clay punctured the vein at the join of the animal’s neck and filled his canteen with the resulting torrent of product. Foul as it tasted, it was clearly a potent brew. Once full, he stoppered the canteen and began to reach for the rope once more, then found his gaze lingering on the dark interior of the cave.

Don’t, he cautioned himself, nevertheless stepping closer to peer into the inviting gloom. “Dammit,” he muttered, crouching at the cave mouth and knowing he would crawl inside. “A curious nature is surely the worst vice.”

The interior of the cave was musty and remained a gloomy mystery until his eyes adjusted. A part-eaten animal of some kind lay in the centre of the cave. Clay thought it might be a cat from the blood-matted fur, but the mutilation was such he couldn’t be sure. Beyond it he could see a small patch of light glimmering on something. Stepping over the unfortunate creature, he drew up short at the sight of an egg sitting atop a pile of fused animal bones.

Guess that’s why she was so unwelcoming, he thought, sinking to his haunches and reaching out to smooth a hand over the egg. Sorry young ’un. Mama’s gone, and it’s my fault.

The sharp jab of regret was unexpected, Loriabeth hadn’t had any choice after all. But still, his brief if tenuous connection with Lutharon, and the drake memories Ethelynne had shared with him back in the ruined city, left him with a new appreciation for the true nature of these animals. The Blacks, he knew, were not like the others. They feel, they think. If the evidence found in the temple was to be believed there had been a time when the original Arradsians lived in harmony with the Blacks. Whilst all we’ve ever done is kill them.

He took the egg on impulse, finding it weighing only a half-pound or so. An idea had begun to worm its way into the forefront of his thoughts, a notion stoked by his remembrance of Ethelynne and what she had done to survive the Wittler Expedition all those years ago.

Making his way outside, he consigned the egg to his pack then once again removed the stopper from his canteen. “Don’t worry, young ’un,” he said, taking a hefty gulp and wincing at the taste. “Mama’s gonna make sure you get born after all.”

They made camp a short distance from the cliff-edge, clustering around a fire as the lights faded. They were once again in a forest, though less dense than the first one. The trees were more akin in form to the jungle giants Clay was familiar with, although, like the drakes, these appeared to be stunted cousins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 35

Lizanne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How bad was it?” Arberus asked, casting a dark glance at the city before moving closer to clasp her forearms.

He thinks I might have been raped, Lizanne realised with a pang of bitterness as she detected the reluctance in his tone. How terrible for him. “I achieved my objective,” she said, disentangling herself. “Now I have to secure him. Do you have it?” She held out her hand, ignoring the hurt that passed over Arberus’s face.

“Loaded with the finest product the Brotherhood could find,” he said, reaching into his pocket to extract the Spider.

“I should hope so.” Lizanne took the device and strapped it on, groaning in relief as she injected a dose of good-quality Green. “We need to gather the Brotherhood,” she said, straightening and striding off. “I suspect a difficult negotiation awaits us.”

“You can fuck right off, my dear.”

The Electress stood amidst a pile of gathered weapons, barrels and sundry valuables looted from the battle-field and the guard-house. The surviving Furies were arranged at her back, each now sporting a rifle or cavalryman’s carbine. Anatol had taken up position on Atalina’s left whilst between them stood the notably less substantial person of Tinkerer. The assembled ranks of the Brotherhood were drawn up behind Lizanne, along with Makario, who remained understandably nervous of placing himself in proximity to his erstwhile employer. Thanks to the losses inflicted by the constables and Imperial soldiery, the ranks of the Furies were somewhat thinner than Lizanne might have expected, meaning the two groups were roughly even in numbers.

“If this one’s such a prize,” Atalina went on, drumming her stubby fingers on Tinkerer’s head, “it’d be awful foolish of me to just hand him over to you, don’t you think?”

“The Ironship Syndicate will ensure you receive a substantial reward,” Lizanne replied.

“Your syndicate isn’t here,” the Electress pointed out then nodded at the assembled Brotherhood. “All you have is this pack of rebels and it’s sound odds they haven’t got a pot worth pissing in. Besides which, what use is gold now?”

The Electress raised her thick arms, gesturing at the corpse-littered field and the guard-house, which the former prisoners had been quick to set ablaze after a thorough looting. “You said it yourself, they can’t let this go unanswered. Right now there’ll be messengers galloping to the nearest garrison. Within a week there’ll be an army sweeping this province.”

“Then hadn’t you best be on your way?” Korian said, stepping to Lizanne’s side. A freshly stitched cut leaked blood on the Brotherhood leader’s cheek as he glared at the Electress. The injury and the comrades lost in the battle apparently left him in no mood for negotiating with those he plainly considered unworthy of his brand of liberty. “I’m sure there are plenty of farm-steads to pillage near by.”

“Oh pipe down, boy,” the Electress snapped. “You’re in the same midden-cart as us, if you hadn’t noticed. Whatever she promised you”—Atalina stabbed a blunt finger at Lizanne—“won’t help now. The Emperor’s soldiers will kill us all just the same. You let her take the Tinkerer and she’ll have ghosted on her way by nightfall, leaving us to the slaughter.”

Korian’s cheeks bunched as he switched his glare to Lizanne, the innate suspicion of all things corporate rising in his gaze. “She makes a valid point,” he observed softly. “What assurances can you offer that Ironship will provide the arms they promised? Our agents in Corvus tell us they’re about to conclude a treaty with the Emperor.”

“Merely a matter of convenience,” Lizanne said, hoping her off-hand tone masked the insincerity. In truth she had no idea whether the Board would approve the contract with these fanatics, nor did she care. Their struggle was a distraction from larger concerns.

“She lies!” Helina’s voice was shrill with what Lizanne recognised as the pitch of the recently mad. The small woman stood amongst the Brotherhood, clutching her wounded arm and staring at Lizanne with wild-eyed malice. Demisol and the rest of the Learned Damned had apparently fallen in the charge to the gate, leaving this crazed wretch as their only representative. “Trust nothing that issues from this whore’s mouth!” Helina spat. “You would do the revolution a great service by killing her here and now!”

“You have no authority here, citizen,” Arberus told Helina, pointedly putting a hand on the hilt of his sabre.

“And what authority do you hold?” she snarled in return. “By all accounts you are nothing but this whore’s whore.”

Lizanne resisted the temptation to forestall any further insults via the expedient of smashing every tooth in Helina’s mouth, instead forcing a brisk but determined tone as she directed her words at Korian. “This avails us nothing. We have an agreement. Do you intend to honour it or not?”

“What if he doesn’t?” the Electress broke in, Lizanne turning to find a grin on the woman’s lips. It was a worryingly confident grin. “What if he tells you to fuck right off too? What will you do then, my dear? Use the Blessing to kill us all, perhaps? Got enough product for that?” She gave a meaningful glance to her right and Lizanne saw the reason for her confidence. Varkash was striding towards them from the direction of the blazing guard-house, a dense mob of Wise Fools at his back and a less orderly host of Scuttlers and sundry others on either side. Altogether, Lizanne estimated their number at well over three thousand people. Too many to kill, she knew. Too many to flee from.

“It seems to me,” the Electress went on, now fixing her gaze on Korian but speaking with sufficient volume to ensure the encroaching masses heard her, “we have a limited set of options. We can scatter, take to the hills and forests and scratch a living through banditry. Some of us might live a few years, most will find themselves captured and dangling from a rope within a few weeks. Or we can wait here where we’re certain to get slaughtered once the Emperor’s army turns up. Or we move on. The port city of Vorstek lies two hundred and fifty miles due east. Where’s there’s a port, there’s ships.”

“You propose seizing an Imperial city?” Korian asked with an appalled laugh.

“I don’t want to keep it.” The Electress’s gaze snapped to Lizanne. “Your Syndicate’s got plenty of ships, I hear. More than enough to carry us all away to a nice safe Mandinorian port. Isn’t that right?”

Lizanne watched Varkash come to a halt near by, the other escapees crowding in around to witness the scene. The huge Varestian crossed his arms and directed a steady gaze at Lizanne. He appeared to have emerged from the chaos without injury, and his gaze lacked the fury she saw in many faces. But there was an implacable purpose to it, a promise of inescapable consequences.

“Yes,” Lizanne told the Electress, once again hoping her tone concealed the lie. “I can arrange that. Dependent on his safe delivery,” she added, pointing at Tinkerer.

“Oh, Anatol will take very good care of him, be assured of that.” Atalina pinched Tinkerer’s chin. “As if he were a new-born babe.”

“I fail to see why the Brotherhood should take part in this farce,” Korian said.

“You get the arms she promised when the ships turn up,” the Electress told him. “But you also get something far more valuable.” She laughed and flung her arms out wide, encompassing the unwashed mob. “An army with which to relight the fires of revolution!”

“Two hundred and fifty miles,” Arberus said, scanning the sprawling and disorderly camp with military disdain. “This lot will be lucky to manage another thirty.”

“I wouldn’t under-estimate the Electress’s leadership abilities,” Lizanne cautioned. “In any case we have little option but to follow her course, at least until this army meets defeat, as it surely must before long.”

They sat atop a low hill a dozen miles or so from Scorazin where the Electress had ordered camp be made after a protracted and ill-disciplined march. The ranks had swollen to at least six thousand souls. This was substantially less than the population of Scorazin before the escape, so many having fallen and many others opting to take to their heels rather than join the Electress’s expedition.

Scorazin had burned as they marched away. Although none of the army’s principal figures had ordered it, every structure capable of burning had been put to the torch before the march began. Lizanne understood the instinctive desire that provoked the arson, the deep-set need to wipe this place from the earth thereby removing any chance they might be returned here one day. Inevitably the fires spread to the sulphur mines, birthing an inferno of such intensity it could still be seen on the western horizon.

“It might burn for years,” Arberus mused, watching the yellow-orange glow flicker on the distant clouds. “At the very least the Emperor will have to find himself a new prison. You achieved that if nothing else.”

“Is it true about the treaty?” Lizanne asked. “Is the Emperor close to an agreement with Ironship?”

“The Brotherhood has a few agents within the palace, but their reports are often contradictory. One day it appears the Emperor is entirely lucid and receptive to the delegation’s suggestions, the next he’s raving and executing guardsmen and nobles on a whim. But most agree that, mad or not, he will sign the treaty, if he hasn’t done so already.”

“Then we have a chance of opposing the White in decent strength, at least until we can unlock the secrets in Tinkerer’s head.”

“You’re convinced he’s that important?”

Lizanne thought back to the chamber Tinkerer had shown her, the circle of skeletons, each one a Blood-blessed. “I believe his presence in Scorazin is connected to the Artisan,” she said. “And I doubt it was accidental. He has knowledge that can help us, I’m certain of it.”

“You place a great deal of faith in a long-dead man and a pale-faced youth.”

“In time faith may be the only thing that sustains us.”

Something in her voice must have concerned him for he moved closer, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. She allowed herself to be embraced, her earlier pique lingering but not enough to push him away. “I hardly slept,” he said. “The thought of you in that place . . .”

“Was better than the reality.”

He winced at the hardness in her voice, drawing back a little. “It seems all I can do is say the wrong thing. What would you have me do? Just tell me.”

“Find me a change of clothes for a start,” she muttered, slumping against him, letting herself surrender to exhaustion. “And,” she whispered as her eyes began to close, “a working and accurate timepiece.”

In the morning Arberus presented her with a set of cavalry fatigues, presumably taken from the body of one of the more youthful troopers. Lizanne peeled away the filthy overalls she had worn throughout her time in Scorazin, uncaring of any witnesses to her nakedness. She tossed the garment on the camp-fire before dousing herself with the bucket of water Arberus had fetched from a near by stream. The chill of it was shocking, but also added a welcome tingle to her flesh which she realised had become increasingly numb during her imprisonment. She rubbed at her damp skin, scraping away the grime and stink of the place, but somehow knowing some vestige of the scent would always linger. Blinds don’t wash, Clay had told her once in the trance. It seemed Scorazin didn’t wash either.

Arberus had also procured her a mount, a russet mare with the sturdy proportions and broad, hair-covered hooves of a cart-horse. “The Brotherhood can’t afford to be choosy over its mounts,” the major explained as Lizanne looked the animal over. She regarded Lizanne with soft brown eyes, issuing a placid snort as she smoothed a hand over her snout.

“As long as she doesn’t bite,” Lizanne said, climbing into the saddle.

The Electress’s army was already in motion, hounded to its feet by gang leaders turned captains. Varkash was most prominent among these enforcers of discipline, seemingly possessed of an ability to command instant obedience and quell grumbling with a glance. Despite their willingness to follow the Electress’s course, these weren’t soldiers and the host moved in a disorderly crowd, plodding east at an unimpressive pace.

“We’ve covered twenty miles since yesterday, I reckon,” Anatol said as they assembled at the Electress’s camp-fire come nightfall. Atalina seemed content to tolerate the presence of Lizanne and Arberus, despite the fact that they hadn’t been summoned.

“More like twelve,” Arberus insisted. “If that. These soldiers of yours move as if they’re on a holiday stroll. And,” he went on, nodding at a group of convicts near by who were busy squabbling over a bottle of wine, “many are too drunk to put one foot in front of the other.”

The Electress glanced at Varkash, who promptly strode towards the squabbling group. They instantly fell into silent stillness at his approach, apparently too fearful to run as he took the bottle from one of them and slowly emptied the contents over the man’s head. “Next time I’ll piss in it and make you drink it,” he said, smashing the bottle on the ground before walking back to the fire.

“Fear of him won’t be enough,” Arberus told the Electress. “Not when the fighting starts. If you truly want this to be an army, you’ll have to make this lot into soldiers.”

“How d’you propose we do that?” she enquired.

“Some proper organisation for a start. Divide them into regiments and the regiments into companies, each with its own captain. Each company will march together and camp together. Also, you need to take charge of the supply situation. At the rate this lot are consuming the food taken at Scorazin they’ll be starving within two weeks. Gather the supplies into carts and appoint a quartermaster to ensure equal shares are rationed out. You should also start sending foraging parties out to gather more. And,” he added with a glance at Varkash, “make sure any drunkenness is harshly punished.”

“Seems sensible,” the pirate said to Atalina in his nasal twang. “Haven’t flogged a man in years. Preddy sure I can remember how, dough.”

“No,” the Electress said. “These people threw in with me on the promise of freedom. Start showing them the whip and they’ll soon decide they might as well try their luck on their own. Still, getting rid of the booze is a good idea. Go through the camp in the morning, smash all the bottles you can find. Most’ll still be too groggy to object. As for the rest of your suggestions,” she said, turning back to Arberus, “I’ll leave to you. It’s your plan, you make it happen.”

Arberus divided the army into five regiments of roughly a thousand soldiers apiece. Each regiment consisted of five companies of two hundred soldiers and tended to reflect the soldiers’ prison-born allegiances. The First and Second Regiments were mostly Furies and Wise Fools whilst the Scuttlers made up most of the Third. The remaining companies had also been formed around a nucleus of survivors from the minor gangs. Those not allotted a regiment, mainly the older convicts and others unsuited to fighting due to infirmity, were organised into what Arberus called a logistics train of cooks, cart-drivers and medical orderlies. There were no qualified physicians amongst them but the pressures of life in Scorazin had produced a surprising number with hard-earned skills in the healing arts. Several were whores from the Miner’s Repose, all familiar with various restorative concoctions and the tending of minor wounds. Arberus placed the perpetually rancorous Silvona in charge of the army’s medical services. Being the oldest, and by far the most vocal, the others tended to defer to her in any case.

Arberus was also quick to establish a daily routine, having the companies roused shortly after dawn and attempting to educate them in basic drill before breakfast. There were several former soldiers in their ranks who found themselves quickly elevated to sergeants charged with forming the companies into a semblance of military order. Morning drill was followed by a short breakfast after which camp would be broken and the day’s march commenced. Arberus insisted on organising the army into a column and ordered the sergeants to ensure no soldier wandered more than two yards from the line of march. He also set a punishing pace, marching them for two hours at a time before permitting a half-hour’s rest. Inevitably, the sudden introduction of discipline produced an upsurge in grumbling and some outright dissent, though most of it died down after Varkash beat one man unconscious for throwing a handful of dung at Arberus’s horse. Those not inclined to open disobedience, but also finding the strictures of military life not much to their liking, had taken the opportunity to desert during the second night, though not as many as Lizanne would have expected.

“Forty-four failed to answer the morning roster,” Arberus reported at the Electress’s nightly conclave.

“Send me after them,” Anatol said to her with a murderous grimace. “Forty-four severed heads would be quite the lesson.”

The Electress shook her head, puffing on one of the increasingly scarce cigarillos to be found. “What lesson? That I’m just as bad as the constables? No, Annie, old love, let them go. The Emperor’s soldiers will find them soon enough.”

“And learn our destination in the process,” Lizanne pointed out.

“Can’t be helped. There’s too many to track down in any case, and we don’t have time to be pissing about.” She took a final draw on her cigarillo, wincing in regret as she inspected the smoking fragment before stubbing it out. “What else, General?” she asked Arberus, employing a title Lizanne noticed many were now using to address the major, and not all with the same ironic lilt.

“The supply situation is still worrying,” he said. “Rationing has reduced wastage, but we’ll need a great deal more if we’re to make it to Vorstek.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. Those buggers we killed back at Scorazin, the light-horsey wotsits.”

“The Thirty-eighth Imperial Light Horse,” Arberus supplied.

“Right. They must have had a base, I assume?”

“They were stationed at Hervus, a small garrison town to the south.”

“Small, eh?” The Electress smiled. “Which means it’ll now be mostly empty since we killed nearly all those bastards. Am I right?”

“They may have been reinforced by now,” Arberus said, pausing for a moment’s calculation before adding, “Although it’s unlikely. Most of the Imperial troops in this prefecture are concentrated in the north to guard the approaches to Corvus.”

“How far to Hervus?” the Electress enquired.

“Two days’ march, if we push hard.”

“Then push away, General.” The Electress rose and stomped off towards her tent. “And let’s hope they have some fucking smokes there, I’m gasping.”

CHAPTER 36

Clay

Clay followed Kriz’s slender form, outlined in the bobbing glow of the lantern as she descended the stairs with a sure-footed swiftness. He suspected she was unwilling to let herself stop, as if the slightest pause would undo her determination to confront what lay below. It took several minutes to reach the bottom, Kriz striding through the narrow opening they found there with the same purposeful lack of hesitancy. Clay followed her then came to an unbidden stop at the sight that greeted him.

They were in a large chamber, most of it shrouded in darkness but he was able to gain an impression of its size as Kriz’s lantern beam swept around. He heard her stifle a choking gasp as the light caught a bulky shape near the centre of the chamber. She rushed towards it, the light revealing a curved form that stirred an instant note of recognition. Moving closer, he saw it was a large stone slab that possessed a vague resemblance to a segment of orange. Full recognition dawned when Sigoral followed Loriabeth into the chamber, his sailor’s lamp adding enough light to afford a fuller view of the chamber.

Not an orange, Clay thought, his gaze picking out the outline of an identical segment near by. An egg. It was the same as the huge segmented egg back in the structure where they had encountered Kriz. That one had been wet and, he now understood, recently opened. This one, however, was dry and covered in pale yellow dust.

“More over here,” Loriabeth said, tapping the toe of her boot to another slab several feet away. Clay scanned the chamber, seeing numerous slabs all lying in their dusty shrouds. He did a quick count and estimated there were enough segments to make a dozen eggs. But it was clear that whatever had been waiting to hatch had done so a very long time ago.

A soft keening drew him towards the centre of the chamber where he found Kriz on her knees, hands playing over the dust-covered surface of a different object. This one was smaller than the eggs, with a more jagged appearance. As Kriz smoothed some of the dust from its surface he saw how it caught a bright gleam from her lantern.

“Crystal,” he murmured, moving closer. It was much the same dimensions as the glowing rock from in the island structure, but this one lay dark and lifeless on the chamber floor.

A stream of words issued from Kriz’s mouth in a rapid jumble, too fast to follow but Clay was sure one of the words translated as “alone.”

“She lost her mind?” Loriabeth asked.

“I don’t think so,” Clay replied, then nodded at the surrounding shapes. “I think there was something here she hoped might still be around.”

“This is a tomb,” Sigoral said, rubbing dust between his gloved fingers. “All bodies will turn to dust with sufficient time.”

“I don’t think she was expecting to pay her respects to the dead.” His mind ransacked the evidence, coming up with an unpalatable but undeniable conclusion. The opened egg back at the island . . . “Ten thousand years . . .” “It was a storehouse,” he went on. “Or a barracks, depending on how you look at it.” His gaze tracked from the crystal to one of the sundered eggs. “She slept in one of these for a very long time, not knowing she’d be all alone when she woke up.”

“Slept?” Sigoral asked, clearly finding the notion absurd.

“We’ve seen a lot since we got ourselves trapped down here,” Clay replied. “Folk who could build this place, and everything else, ain’t too much of a stretch to imagine they could contrive a way for people to sleep for years at a time.”

Kriz let out a sob, so full of pain and loss he gave an involuntary shiver. The sense of being observed was strong here, as if the silent scrutiny of those gone-to-dust souls were pressing in from all sides.

“Guess something went wrong at some point,” he went on, moving to rest a hand on Kriz’s shoulder.

“Father . . .” Kriz’s voice was a whisper. She remained huddled on her knees, tears dripping from her face, but there was a sibilant anger to her tone that hadn’t been there before. “Father . . .” she repeated, forming the words with care, “went . . . wrong.” Without warning she threw her head back and screamed, “FATHER!”

The scream echoed through the chamber like thunder, full of rage and accusation, then slowly faded without reply.

“We, uh,” Loriabeth began after a short interval during which Kriz subsided back into herself, slender shoulders moving in gentle heaves. “We should go.”

Once outside Kriz didn’t pause, striding away from the opening without a backward glance. A few times she faltered, succumbing to brief bouts of grief that saw her choking down sobs. Clay made no attempt to talk to her. The depth of sorrow on her face made him doubt she could hear him just now. She only seemed to regain full awareness when Loriabeth spotted an unusual feature in the landscape ahead.

“That smoke I see?” she said, pointing at a large opening marring the otherwise smooth surface of a cliff some ways off to the left. Clay surveyed it through the spy-glass on his carbine, finding it dark and weathered but with a hard-edged quality that made him doubt it was a natural feature. If anything in here could even be called natural, he thought, watching a thin but continuous stream of grey smoke rising from the opening.

“Could climb up and take a look,” he mused aloud, turning to Sigoral. “Feel up to it, Lieutenant?”

“No!” Kriz moved to Clay’s front, shaking her head. Her grief seemed to have evaporated for the moment and her voice was hard. “No climb!”

Clay’s gaze lingered on her emphatic frown for a second before tracking back to the opening. “Something bad in there?” he asked. “More long-dead folks turned to dust?”

She ignored the question, flicking her gaze about as if searching for something in the surrounding rocks. “We go,” she told Clay, moving off with a rapid stride. It seemed clear to Clay that this time she had no intention of waiting to see if they followed.

“We’d best move on,” he told the others with a final glance at the smoking hole in the cliff. “If something’s got her this spooked it’s probably not a good idea to linger.”

Kriz led them on through ever-steeper country for another hour before calling a halt atop a broad rocky shelf overlooking a shallow canyon. “Kinda lacking in cover for my liking,” Loriabeth said, casting her gaze at the gathering gloom above. “Nowhere to shelter if a Black comes calling, and this is their sorta country.”

Clay surveyed the surrounding landscape. The trees had all but vanished now, leaving them in a region of rock-covered hills he knew would soon become mountains. “Can’t see much of an alternative,” he said. “We’ll keep double watch just in case.”

Kriz had perched herself on the edge of the shelf, legs dangling as she gazed down at the canyon below. Clay and the others sat around and finished off some sea-biscuits whilst Kriz continued her silent vigil.

“Can’t be more than thirty miles off,” Loriabeth said, turning to regard the silver line of the shaft. “That’s a two-day march in country like this.”

“Then you’d best get some rest, cuz,” Clay told her, having opted to share the first watch with Kriz. Sigoral had already settled down for the night, using his jacket as a blanket and pack as a pillow, as was his custom. His eyes were closed and his face slack in slumber, though he still had a firm grip on his carbine.

“Pops off in seconds, every time,” Loriabeth said, covering herself with her duster. “Must be a sailor’s habit.” She paused a second before correcting herself. “Marine’s habit.”

“Must be.”

Clay waited until his cousin was safely asleep before moving to sit at Kriz’s side. The faux-night had come on fully now, casting a silver outline over her profile, which barely twitched as he joined her. It was evident her earlier grief had returned, at least partially.

“Sorry about your folks,” he said, failing to produce a response. “I’m guessing that was your folks back there, or at least people you were close to.”

Kriz’s slim shoulders moved in a listless shrug, giving no indication of understanding or interest in his sympathy.

“Seemed awful aggravated at your pa,” he forged on. “That I can understand. My pa was a worthless, headhunting shit-pile and I ain’t felt a moment’s sorrow over blowing his brains out, mostly anyways. That what you’re planning on when we find your father? Got an account to settle?”

Kriz turned to him, features bland and eyes dim, a soul sunk deep into sadness. “Can’t . . . talk,” she said, then added, “now.” With that she turned away and lowered her gaze to the canyon once again where the faint light danced on a stream winding its way through the rocks.

“Those markings back at the island,” Clay persisted, reaching out to take her hand when she didn’t respond. She tried to pull away but he held her in place. He used his finger to trace the two lines and the circle on the back of her hand then pointed at his own eye. “I’ve seen it before,” he told her. “In a place far to the north of here. Another hidden place. Did your people build that too?”

Kriz gave an annoyed grunt and succeeded in tugging her hand free. She got to her feet and stalked away, Clay following at a cautious distance lest he provoke her to violence. “You lost your people,” he said. “Your world too, I guess. But there’s another one, up there.” He moved into her eye-line, pointing to the black sky. “My world, and something’s fixing to tear it all to pieces. You understand?” He stepped closer, speaking in an urgent rasp. “We came here for a reason. You got answers and I need them.”

He reached for his wallet and extracted the Blue vial. At the sight of the product Kriz shook her head and stepped back from him, arms crossed in stern refusal. Clay bit down on a shout of frustration, fighting the urge to grab her and force the product down her throat, an act he suspected would see one of them nursing an injury or two.

“People are dying up there,” he said, letting the anger leech from his voice. “Thousands are dead already and there’ll be thousands more before this ends. And it’s my fault, ’cos I woke it up.” He blinked and felt tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he said, his voice a thin croak as he held the vial out to her. “Please.”

Kriz maintained the same posture for some time, arms tight about her chest, though he saw her gaze track the tears coursing down his face. “You . . . not . . . understand,” she said, Clay detecting a wince of apology as she tapped a finger to her head. “What I . . . show.”

“Think I’m too dumb to grasp it all, huh?” He grunted a laugh and wiped the tears away, still holding the vial out to her. “I’ll try to follow as far as my dimwit’s brain allows.”

Kriz closed her eyes for a second, taking a short breath as if summoning some reserve of strength, then reached to take the vial.

The scream split the air like an axe blade, rebounding from the surrounding rocks to produce a piercing echo that made it impossible to discern the source. Loriabeth and Sigoral came awake instantly, surging to their feet with weapons raised. An unspoken instinct drew the four of them together so that they stood back-to-back, eyes straining against the encroaching dark as the scream faded.

“Black,” Loriabeth breathed. “Leastways, I think so. Never heard one so loud, though.”

“No,” Clay said, a dreadful recognition churning his stomach. He found his hands trembling as he tried to keep his carbine steady. “That’s a White.”

CHAPTER 37

Lizanne

Arberus spent several hours formulating a detailed plan for the seizure of Hervus. The Brotherhood’s riders were sent to scout the approaches and the regiments were drawn up to assault the town walls in several places at once. The army’s two cannon would be used to pound the bastion that housed the main gate, principally as a diversion whilst the assault parties scaled the walls with hastily constructed ladders. So it was with some small amusement that Lizanne noted the disappointed frown on Arberus’s face when they approached to within a mile of Hervus, finding the gates standing open and a truce-flag flying above the bastion.

“Never mind,” Lizanne told the major with a grin. “I’m sure it would have worked.”

She attached herself to the delegation accompanying the Electress as she made her way to the gate. Atalina bounced gracelessly on the back of a massive dray-horse she had named Dropsy. Lizanne thought the woman made a defiantly impressive sight as she dragged her mount to a halt a few yards short of the town’s gate, the impression of bulk and purposeful aggression overcoming any humour aroused by the otherwise unedifying spectacle she made. Lizanne watched her take in the grisly spectacle that greeted her at the bastion; six naked bodies hanging by their ankles from the arched entrance. The corpses were perhaps two days old by Lizanne’s reckoning, the blood dried on their flesh into brown stains and their skin not yet begun to blacken. Their wounds were clustered around the chest and abdomen in a pattern Lizanne knew well. These men had died by firing squad. Beneath the bodies stood a cluster of young men wearing the uniforms of mixed Imperial soldiery: short-jacketed cavalry troopers, infantrymen in their grey-green long coats and blue-jacketed artillerymen. The motley group numbered twenty in all, fidgeting in silence under the Electress’s scrutiny until she deigned to address them, “Who the fuck are you lot?”

One of the young men stepped forward, trying and mostly failing to put some stridency into his voice as he provided a clearly pre-rehearsed response, “Elected representatives of the Council of Free Soldiers.” He coughed and pointed to the corpses dangling above his head. “This town has been liberated and those who held us in bondage subject to just execution.”

“So I see,” the Electress replied. “These your officers?”

“Those that failed to join us when we raised the standard of freedom.” The young soldier had gained some confidence now and straightened his back as he resumed his prepared speech, “Too long have the honest soldiers of this empire borne the yoke and the whip of the officer caste. It’s time for a new army, a people’s army . . .”

“Alright, give it a rest, lad,” the Electress said, wincing at the youth’s increasing volume. “How many of these newly free soldiers have you got in there?”

The soldier’s composure faltered a little but he held himself in place with what Lizanne thought was commendable self-control. “Enough to defend this station,” he said. “Should it prove necessary.”

“Balls,” Atalina replied, smothering a yawn. “We killed most of your lot at Scorazin. That’s where we’re from, if you hadn’t guessed. Me and all my friends.” She turned in the saddle, gesturing at the assembled ranks of the army drawn up some two hundred yards short of the gate. “Cutthroats, bandits and killers,” she said turning back and favouring the young man with a surprisingly sympathetic smile. “And that’s just the nice ones. Does this really have to get unpleasant, lad?”

“We want no trouble,” the youth replied, his face paling and voice taking on a thin, reedy quality. “In fact we wish to negotiate an alliance. News of your victory was the second spark to our rebellion.”

“Nice to know. I’m sure we’ll get on famously, ’specially if you’ve got any cigarillos going.” The Electress groaned and climbed down from Dropsy’s back before stepping forward to offer the young man her hand. “Name’s Atalina, but you can call me Electress.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I didn’t inherit the title, but don’t tell anyone, eh?”

“Jarkiv,” the soldier replied, grimacing as he shook the proffered hand and no doubt suffered a demonstration of brute strength. “Corporal Jarkiv.”

“That won’t do.” The Electress released his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Smart lad like you should be a captain at least. Make a note will you, General,” she called, waving Arberus forward. “Captain Jarkiv and the First Free Soldier Brigade welcomed into our ranks on this day.”

Lizanne followed as Arberus walked his stallion closer and dismounted, offering Jarkiv a smart salute, which the youth returned in an automatic reflex. “Welcome, Captain,” Arberus greeted him in brisk tones. “I’ll need a full accounting of your numbers and supplies.”

“Yes, sir!” Jarkiv saluted again, the cluster of soldiers at his back all snapping to attention and following suit. Lizanne suspected that, for all his revolutionary rhetoric, Jarkiv and his comrades were too steeped in the military mind-set not to welcome the arrival of competent authority, however unexpected the source.

“Excellent,” Arberus said, glancing up at the bodies hanging above. “And let’s get this mess cleaned up, shall we?”

“Very good, sir.”

“The second spark,” Lizanne said, making Jarkiv and the others pause as they turned to follow their orders.

“Ma’am?” he asked with a cautious glance at Arberus and the Electress.

“You said our victory was the second spark to your rebellion. What was the first?”

Jarkiv frowned at her in bafflement. “You mean you don’t know? We assumed it’s what sparked your own uprising.”

“Know about what, lad?” the Electress said.

“The Emperor,” Jarkiv told her. “The Emperor’s dead.”

The Electress had been quick to take possession of the offices once occupied by the colonel who had commanded this station. After securing the town and its precious supplies she convened a council of the army’s captains where Jarkiv related what he knew of the momentous event. Atalina reclined behind the fallen officer’s desk, a contented grin on her broad lips as cigarillo smoke leaked from her mouth and nostrils.

“A Blood Cadre agent brought the news ten days ago,” Jarkiv said. “Apparently, the Emperor suffered a fit and drowned in his bath.”

Lizanne exchanged glances with Arberus, finding his sceptical frown a mirror of her own. “If he drowned, it wasn’t due to a fit,” she said, experiencing an unexpected pang of regret for the passing of poor mad Emperor Caranis Vol Lek Akiv Arakelin. His delusions had been entertaining, if nothing else. “Has an heir been named?”

“The Emperor died without issue,” Jarkiv replied. “The Cadre agent told our major that Countess Sefka Vol Nazarias has convened a Regency Council to exercise power pending a decision on the succession.”

“Sefka . . .” Lizanne whispered. To think I persuaded Caranis to let her live. The Blood Imperial won’t be happy about her elevation, if she hasn’t had him killed yet. “It was a coup,” she said, raising her voice to address the room. “I expect in a few days this Regency Council will find a convenient puppet to place on the throne or the countess herself will miraculously discover a blood line linking her to the Imperial family. Which doesn’t bode well for anyone with a legitimate claim.”

“Prince Reshnik is Caranis’s closest living relative,” Arberus said. “But he’s seventy years old and, reputedly, a simpleton.”

“Countesses, emperors, princes,” Korian said, voice rich in scorn and an excited gleam in his eye. “The great aristocratic circus doesn’t matter now. The nobility has always been a pestilential snake coiling itself around the heart of this empire, and now it’s headless. We have never had a better opportunity.”

“To do whad?” Varkash enquired. He stood at the Electress’s left, arms crossed and a stern frown on his brow.

“To win of course,” Korian replied, turning about to address them all, voice trembling a little. “Think of it, brothers and citizens. The road to true freedom lies open, we need only take it.”

“My men didn’t join up for a revolution,” Varkash pointed out. “They were promised ships and passage off dis blighted land. As for myself, I have bidness in Varestia and couldn’t give a sea-dog’s cock for your freedom.”

“Your homeland will be freed from the perennial threat of invasion once we are victorious,” Korian insisted then turned to point at Jarkiv. “This man and his fellows have shown how fragile the Regnarchy’s grip has become. They will not be the only soldiers to rise against their officers. This will not be the only town to wrest itself free of its chains. There were riots in Corvus before the Emperor’s death. Now the city must be in ferment. We should strike north in the morning, begin a march on the capital that will capture the hearts of thousands . . .”

“We come up against one decent-sized and well-organised force and we’re done,” the Electress broke in, speaking quietly but firmly as she stubbed out her cigarillo and immediately reached for another. “Right, General?” she added, raising an eyebrow at Arberus.

“In all probability,” Arberus said, face set in hard contemplation. “But that presupposes such a force exists to oppose us. If Citizen Korian is correct, the road to Corvus would be open.”

Lizanne found she didn’t like what she heard in Arberus’s voice, the echo of that revolutionary zeal that had birthed so many arguments. “And what would we do when we got there?” she enquired.

“What many of us have dedicated our lives to,” he replied, turning to meet her gaze. “We put an end to the tyranny that has been the bane of this empire for centuries.”

I thought you had progressed beyond this, she wanted to say. I thought I had made you . . . more. Instead she hid her disappointment with a shrug and turned her attention to the Electress. “There are too many unknown factors here,” she said. “Clearly there will be a measure of chaos, but to imagine that we could march all the way to Corvus unopposed is lunacy.”

The Electress glanced at her before clasping her hands together in a familiar contemplative gesture. After a long moment of calculation she turned again to Arberus. “What’re our numbers like now?”

“With the addition of Captain Jarkiv’s men, close on six thousand,” he replied.

The Electress nodded, face expressionless as she pointed a stubby finger at the door. “Everyone out, I need to think about this for a bit. Not you, dear,” she added, as Lizanne made to follow the others from the room. “We’re overdue for a proper chat.”

“The last woman to betray me begged for death.” Atalina had ordered a bottle of wine brought to her rooms and sipped at it as they sat opposite each other beside the fire-place. Lizanne noted that the tray holding the bottle held only one glass. “The last man who betrayed me couldn’t,” the Electress went on, “on account of how I’d stuffed his balls in his mouth.”

“Yes, you’re a very frightening person,” Lizanne said, offering a bland smile. “Consider me suitably intimidated.”

“’Cept you’re not, are you? Faced worse than me in your time, I’d guess. I’d also guess they’re all dead now. Am I right?”

Lizanne’s mind flashed to Madame Bondersil’s last moments, the helpless fluttering of her arms before the Blue drake jerked its head and swallowed her whole. “Is this relevant?” she asked.

“We need to properly understand each other, if we’re to forge a common purpose.”

“I thought we had already done that.”

“Hah.” The Electress gave a brief chuckle. “You think I don’t know that the moment you get a chance to sneak off with Tinkerer you won’t take it? You do a pretty good job of hiding your thoughts, but the mask slips a little when our radical friends start talking. Got no stomach for their babble, have you?”

“Wilful naïvety is irksome.”

“And General Arberus? He irksome too?”

“He has his ideas, I have mine.”

“Then I’m sorry to say I can’t see much’ve a future for you two. It’s how it was with my old man, before I killed him. We ran a profitable smuggling operation together in northern Kestria. We were young in those days, but we’d been brought up in the smuggling trade and knew the ropes well enough to get by. The purges after the First Revolution had killed off the older breed and much of the competition, so we had a pretty clear run for a few years and got very rich in the process. By the time I was twenty we lived in the finest house in town and had all the ornamentations to go with it. You should always be wary of wealth, my dear, for it’ll make you soft and brave at the same time.

“Came the day the Emperor saw fit to appoint a new Provincial Governor who had a mind to triple the annual bribe we’d paid his predecessor. My husband wasn’t having any of it, grown brave in his wealth, like I said, but arrogance is its own brand of weakness.” She paused to breathe out a nostalgic sigh. “If ever I actually loved someone, it was him. Broke my heart when I slipped the mandrake into his supper. Had no choice, y’see? We could fight another gang, but not the empire. So, I did what needed doing and paid up.”

“And yet you still ended up in Scorazin,” Lizanne noted.

“Things rolled along pretty well for everyone for a good few years. With my husband gone I was able to bring a certain efficiency to the business, doubled our profits soon enough. Then the old governor died of gout. His replacement was some cousin of the Emperor’s, a real stickler with a rod up his arse who thought accepting a bribe was beneath one who bore the Divine Blood. He set his constables to seizing our shipments, after hanging a few who’d been a bit too free with their bribe money. Even then we might have survived, kept things at a low level and waited for the bastard to sod off back to Corvus, but it turned out he had the favour of the Blood Imperial. Once that old fucker sent his agents into Kestria, it was only a matter of time before I found myself at the end of a rope or in Scorazin. Spent a good deal of my life behind those walls. Not saying I didn’t deserve at least some of what I suffered there, but by no means all.”

She raised her eyes to Lizanne’s, holding her gaze for a long moment of silence.

“Oh dear,” Lizanne groaned in realisation as the woman’s intent became clear. It was odd, but her disappointment in the Electress was almost as great as her disappointment in Arberus. Although as dreadful an example of the criminal class as Lizanne had ever expected to meet, she nevertheless had nurtured a deep respect for the woman’s pragmatism. “You actually intend to march on Corvus.”

The Electress shrugged her broad shoulders. “We’ve all got scores to settle. Besides which, with this empire in chaos, who knows what opportunities might happen along? Sailing away to some corporate holding has a certain appeal, if you’d’ve actually kept your side of the deal, which I have my doubts about. But I don’t know the corporate world like I know this empire and its people. Like you said, I could do great things here.”

“Arrogance is its own brand of weakness,” Lizanne reminded her, expecting to arouse the woman’s anger and so was disappointed when she only laughed.

“I’ve never been arrogant in my life,” she said. “But I’ve also never been one to turn my back on an opportunity, or an unpaid debt.”

It took a moment for Lizanne to understand her meaning, and when she did she voiced a brief laugh of her own. “The Blood Imperial. You want revenge for what he did to you.”

“Seems like the only occasion in this lifetime I’m likely to get the chance. But it takes a Blood-blessed to kill a Blood-blessed.”

“Meaning me, I assume.”

“Meaning I’m renegotiating our arrangement. You want Tinkerer, I want that old bastard dead when we get to Corvus.”

“There’s a fair chance he’s dead already.”

The Electress shook her head. “Done my research over the years, gathered every scrap of knowledge I can about the Blood Cadre. I think we both know the Blood Imperial will have survived this coup. Perhaps he even had a hand in bringing it about.”

Lizanne thought back to her meeting with the Blood Imperial, the old man’s deep-set cynicism and ingrained facility for intrigue certainly indicated a soul capable of engineering Caranis’s downfall. But she also recalled his attachment to the established order. It’s an absurd and ancient pantomime, and it works. “I find that unlikely,” she said. “It’s probable that he will be paying lip-service to Countess Sefka’s authority for now, but they’ve been enemies for years. Conflict between the Blood Cadre and the new order is most likely inevitable, meaning he will be more use as an ally than an enemy.”

“You talk like someone who knows him.”

“I do, although our acquaintance was brief. It was thanks to his intelligence I came to Scorazin.”

“Suffering a great deal of privation and risk just so you could bring out Tinkerer. I think it’s time I knew why he’s so important.”

“Suffice to say, if you don’t permit me to take him to an Ironship holding nothing that occurs in this empire will matter a jot.”

“Yes, I gather plenty has happened since I went away. A lot of wild tales to be heard in this town, about how the empire and the corporates got kicked out of Arradsia by a bunch’ve drakes and deformed savages.”

“Sadly all true.”

“Which means no more product for you and your kind. If we wait long enough the Blood Cadre will have exhausted its stocks and won’t be able to oppose us.”

“By which time you’ll be facing something far worse than the Cadre.”

“Then it’s in your interest to ensure our victory is a swift one, my dear.” The Electress paused, eyes narrowing. “You really think the Blood Imperial will throw in with us?”

“Only in extremis. It’s more likely he’ll do everything he can to crush us. You can expect to face his Blood-blessed children before long.”

“How fortunate then that I have you, and that Brotherhood boy, whatsisname.”

“Hyran. He’s far too inexperienced to face combat with a Cadre agent, Blessed or not.”

“Best get to training him then.”

“This is madness,” Lizanne told her simply. “Countess Sefka can still muster enough loyal troops to defeat us, even without the Blood Imperial’s help. You can’t expect this rabble to stand against regular, veteran soldiers.”

“You should have more faith in our general. I’m expecting great things of him.”

The Electress levered herself out of her chair and nodded at the door. “Think that gets it said, don’t you? You could take yourself off of course, can hardly stop you. But this is the deal now, you get the Tinkerer the day you lay the Blood Imperial’s head at my feet on the steps of the Sanctum. In the meantime, go within a dozen feet of the Tinkerer and I’ll have Anatol slit his throat.”

The army moved out after a three-day halt at Hervus during which time Arberus did everything he could to transform his rabble into soldiers. To Lizanne’s surprise there had been no sudden upturn in desertions following the Electress’s announcement that their ultimate objective was now Corvus instead of Vorstek. The ease with which Hervus had fallen seemed to embolden the recruits, even attracting a few more volunteers from the surrounding towns and villages as word spread. Recruitment increased further after the Brotherhood began proclaiming Arberus’s true lineage. They sent riders from town to town spreading the news that the grandson of Morila Akiv Bidrosin herself had emerged from the shadows to lead the march to freedom. By the time they began the march the army’s ranks had swollen to almost ten thousand people, although to Lizanne’s eyes they still displayed only a vague semblance of military order.

“At least we have something like a decent artillery train now,” Arberus commented as the army assembled itself for departure. In addition to Jarkiv and his somewhat grandiosely titled Free Brigade, the fortified town had yielded a dozen cannon and substantial stocks of ammunition. Fortunately, the garrison’s gunners had been amongst the most enthusiastic mutineers, meaning each gun was fully crewed by experienced hands.

“It won’t be enough,” Lizanne said. “One regiment of Household troops will put this lot to flight in a matter of minutes.”

“That supposes Countess Sefka will be able to spare a regiment. Our new recruits brought news of rioting in Corvus, more mutinies in the northern garrison towns. Korian is right, we’ll never have a better opportunity.”

Lizanne watched him survey his army, seeing the zealous gleam in his eye. She knew her disdain was unfair. Arberus had been steeped in revolutionary dogma since birth and this unexpected turn in events could be said to be the culmination of his life. Even so, the swiftness with which he appeared to have abandoned their mission stung more than she cared to admit.

“Come with me tonight and we’ll take the Tinkerer,” she said. “We’ll be far away by morning and safely aboard an Ironship vessel within ten days. Leave these fools to their mad endeavour.”

He didn’t look at her, though she took a crumb of comfort from seeing his zealousness subside into a regretful frown. “I can’t,” he said. “Not now. Not when we’re so close.”

“Is this my fault?” she wondered aloud, addressing herself more than him. “If I had been . . . less myself would you be so quick to throw away what we shared?”

“Did we ever really share more than a purpose?” he enquired, turning to her with a sad smile. “Was I ever more than a useful convenience?”

Lizanne began to answer then stopped, appalled to find the words halted by a catch in her throat. This thing has weakened me, she decided, turning away. And I can no longer afford weakness.

“I see.” Arberus swallowed a sigh and extended a hand to point out the slight form of Tinkerer amongst the busy throng. The artificer stood directing Anatol and his brace of guards as they placed a collection of tubular devices in the back of a wagon.

“The Electress let me put him to use,” Arberus said. “There’s a foundry here, I thought he might be able to produce a thumper or a growler if I gave him the designs. He said it was impossible in the time available, but he did come up with another less complex device that might prove equally effective.”

Lizanne straightened a little at his tone and the note of intent it held. She paused to swallow away the catch in her throat, straightening her back and draining all emotion from her response. “So, I assume you wouldn’t want him to go suddenly missing.”

“Or you. We need you both. We have a chance here to do something great . . .”

“Spare me. You know what we face, you saw it with your own eyes at Carvenport. This trivia”—she waved a hand at the untidy ranks of the sluggishly assembling regiments—“is a distraction.”

“Sefka and the Blood Imperial have no interest in anything beyond their own power,” Arberus countered. “An empire freed from the corruption and incompetence of the ruling nobility will be far better placed to resist the White’s onslaught.”

“Such inventive rationalisation does you credit, General.” Lizanne turned her mare about and trotted away, knowing she would pitch her tent far from his come the evening and that he would make no effort to seek her out.

“Beautiful,” Makario said as Hyran fell silent, clasping his hands together and a small tear rising in his eye. “Simply beautiful.”

The youth flushed a little and gave a modest shrug. “Just an old choral piece Ma and Pa taught me,” he said. “Music was a big part of their faith. Said it gave voice to the soul.”

“So you know others?”

“A dozen or so. There are more, but the Cadre burned all the holy books, so I s’pose they’re gone for good.”

“Yet another Imperial crime to be punished in full when we get to Corvus.” Makario sighed and stepped closer to Hyran, placing a hand on his chest and another on the small of his back to ease him into a more upright pose. “Posture is important, my boy. Raise your chin and let the words soar. Contrary to popular belief the voice comes from the stomach, not the throat.”

“If you’re quite finished,” Lizanne said, impatience adding an edge to her tone. The army had made camp for the night and she had sat watching Makario tutor Hyran in the finer points of vocal performance for nearly an hour now. The musician had remained close to her since the escape, pitching his tent beside hers every night and rarely straying more than a few yards from her side. He had escaped Arberus’s training regimen by appointing himself Assistant to Miss Blood, though his duties in that regard seemed minimal to Lizanne’s eyes.

Miss Blood. The name had re-emerged during their time in Hervus and soon spread throughout the ranks of the army. She suspected Arberus might well have had a hand in resurrecting a title she thought left behind in Feros. Perhaps he sought to cement her position in this unwise expedition whilst also publicising the fact that the army boasted at least one Blood-blessed in its ranks.

“We have work to do,” she told Hyran, rising and plucking a vial from the Spider.

“Oh can’t you leave him be?” Makario implored, striking a somewhat theatrical pose as he placed himself protectively between her and Hyran. “I seek to educate him in the arts of life, whilst all you do is mire him in the arts of death.”

“You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?” Lizanne enquired.

Makario gave a sullen frown and slouched aside. “Actually, I only thought of it a moment ago.”

“Black,” Lizanne said, tossing the vial to Hyran. “Just a drop. We need to husband our supplies.”

So far these nightly training sessions had done little to bolster her faith in the youth’s abilities. His lack of experience and limited exposure to product made him a slow student, barely capable of more than a first-year girl at the Academy. He tended to exhaust any Green he imbibed in a matter of seconds, proving repeatedly incapable of suppressing the exhilaration that accompanied the rush of vitality. His use of Red was clumsy to the point of danger, not least to himself as evidenced by the long scorch-mark on the sleeve of his jacket. However, he did at least display some facility for Black, managing to exert an impressive level of control over the objects he grasped, though his choices were a trifle obvious.

“Smaller is often better,” she told him as he slammed a large boulder against the trunk of a near by oak. The great tree shuddered at the impact, shedding leaves that cascaded around them in a green rain. The boulder itself shattered on impact, sending stone shards in all directions, one of which found the back of Makario’s hand.

“Have a care, if you please!” he huffed, mopping at the bleeding scratch with a kerchief. “These”—he raised his hands and twiddled his fingers—“are my fortune, after all.”

Lizanne ignored him and pointed to a small stone lying close by. “Try that one,” she said. “See if you can set it spinning before you throw it. It’ll fly straighter.”

Hyran frowned and focused his gaze on the stone, raising it to eye level where it hovered and shuddered as he attempted to add the spin.

“Just one hard shove at a single point,” Lizanne advised. “Like flipping a coin. Momentum will do the rest.” The stone lost its shudder then abruptly began spinning so fast it blurred. “Focus on the target.” Lizanne nodded at the oak. “Remember, the quicker you do this the better. Product is always finite.”

The stone vanished and Lizanne initially thought Hyran had exerted enough force to crush it, but then saw a plume of powdered bark and wood blossoming on the centre of the oak’s trunk. “Faster than a bullet,” she told him, gratified by the mingled surprise and satisfaction on his face. “Send a swarm of them into the closed ranks of an advancing regiment and the results can be impressive.”

“I’ll try a load at once,” Hyran said. He raised the vial to his lips then frowned in annoyance when she reached out to tug it from his grasp.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid this is your last lesson. We can’t afford to expend any more product. Not if we’re to have any chance against the Blood Cadre.”

“You’re sure they’ll turn up then?” He tried to hide it but Lizanne could see his fear. At least he has enough wit to be afraid, she thought.

“I regret to say I’m quite certain of it.”

Her gaze was drawn to a commotion in the camp, soldiers clustering around Arberus and the Electress as buglers blew an inexpert rallying signal. Near by Lizanne could see Korian and a cluster of mounted Brotherhood scouts, the steaming breath of their horses indicating a recent arrival after a hard ride.

“And perhaps sooner than expected,” she added. “I do believe we are about to have some Imperial company.”

CHAPTER 38

Clay

The White’s cry faded after a few seconds, leaving the four of them standing back-to-back in primed and silent vigilance. The surrounding gloom seemed suddenly impenetrable, compelling Clay to enhance his vision with a swallow of Green.

“You see it?” Loriabeth whispered as he scanned the landscape, finding only yet more rocks each one of which possessed an uncanny ability to resemble a crouching drake.

“No,” he whispered back, “but it’s out there for sure.”

“Too much to hope you might be mistaken, I suppose?” Sigoral enquired in a tense mutter.

“It’s not a sound I’m ever likely to forget, Lieutenant.”

“Felt close,” Loriabeth said, the butt of her repeating rifle braced hard against her shoulder. “Musta’ seen us.”

“It saw us,” Clay assured her, his gaze flicking from one rock to another. Although Green enabled his eyes to pierce the dark to a high degree, there were still shadows of sufficient depth to conceal a full-grown White. The sense of being observed was strong and he could imagine the beast lurking in a rocky nook as it gazed upon the strange two-legged intruders into its domain. What’s it waiting for? he asked himself. He knew this beast would be smart, a drake that understood much of what it saw, and perhaps what it heard. If it’s waiting it has a reason.

A faint breeze chilled his scalp and he jerked his gaze upward, eyes roving the blank sky until he saw it, a broad-winged silhouette thirty yards above, moving in a slow circle. Clay gauged its size as a little larger than the fully grown male Reds he had seen in the Badlands. He raised his carbine and trained the optical sight on the silhouette. The range was well within reach of this weapon, but he had severe doubts the carbine’s ammunition could pierce the hide of a White. Also, even with Green in his veins the chances of making a head-shot against a moving target were minimal.

“I’ll follow your aim,” Loriabeth said, raising her repeating rifle. “Aim for the wings. Once it’s down I can make the kill-shot.”

“If we miss it’ll be on us in seconds,” he replied. “Ain’t a good idea to provoke one of these things.”

“Since when did they need any provocation?”

A loud clack snapped his gaze to Kriz, finding her standing with the bulky form of her bomb-thrower raised high and her face set in a fiercely determined grimace.

“Don’t!” he shouted, reaching out to push the weapon aside just as it gave a loud cough and a bright plume erupted from the muzzle. The projectile gave a faint whistle as it arced into the air before exploding in a blaze of white fire that banished the gloom in an instant. The flare dangled from a small canopy of some kind, casting forth a blazing light that painted tilting shadows over the surrounding rocks as it swung about. The White screeched in response to the sudden illumination, revealed in full as it angled its wings and swept towards them. Clay was struck by how thin it seemed in comparison to the full-grown cousin he had confronted beneath the mountain. This one had a neck that seemed more bone than flesh, its wings thin and ragged as was its hide. He stood in frozen surprise as it flew closer, his eyes picking out the mottled patchwork on its scales, before Loriabeth and Sigoral opened fire in unison.

The White twisted as bullets rent the air around it, swooping low then high in an effort to avoid the stinging rain of metal. Sparks flew from the rocks as they chased it across the half-lit landscape, the staccato rattle of their guns soon joined by the percussive boom of Kriz’s bomb-thrower. The White jerked left and right as the bombs exploded around it, Clay seeing one come close enough to blast a hole in its wing. It landed as his companions emptied their weapons and the gun-fire died.

They began to reload with feverish energy, Clay keeping his gaze locked on the White as it crawled towards them across the rocks, covering the distance in a skittering blur, mouth gaping as it summoned its fire. He fumbled for his vials, gulping down Black and stepping forward just as the flames started to blossom. He had intended to hold the beast in place but the urgency of the moment made him clumsy. Instead of freezing the White the unleashed wave of force blasted it to one side. The gout of flame streaming from its jaws went wide, though not before leaving a patch of flame on the sleeve of Clay’s duster. He ignored it and tried again, reaching out with his invisible hand to grab the White so Loriabeth could put a bullet through its brain. Once again it evaded him, leaping to the side as the Black cracked rocks to powder.

Clay sank into an involuntary hunch as gun-fire erupted again, Loriabeth and Sigoral moving to his side and blazing away with their reloaded weapons. The White screamed under the lacerating barrage. Clay saw several impacts on its flesh, though no evidence it had suffered serious damage. It leapt high, wings scattering shards of rock into their faces as it sought the air, then jerked spasmodically as one of Kriz’s bombs struck it square in the chest. The White’s wings folded as it plunged back down, smoke rising from a glowing orange spot on its chest. It began to thrash, tail whipping and wings fluttering, issuing an enraged scream along with an intense stream of fire.

Kriz stepped to Clay’s side, her face still fixed with a determined rage. He watched as she switched the drum on her bomb-thrower, slotting a new bulkier one into place. “What is—?” he began then stepped back in alarm as she lowered the angle of her weapon and resumed fire.

The first bomb struck the White just below its neck. Instead of the explosion Clay expected it gave a dull, popping hiss as it blossomed into a ball of flaming sparks, so bright his eyes flooded with water and he had to look away. Kriz continued to fire, emptying all six bombs in the drum in as many seconds. When he looked again, squinting from behind shaded eyes, he saw the White writhing in a bath of pure flame. It gave a final screech before succumbing to the inferno, the tail, now scorched and mostly denuded of flesh, rising to coil like a somnolent snake before subsiding into the all-consuming heat.

“Well,” Loriabeth said, giving Kriz an appreciative hug. “I guess that’ll do it, hon.”

He found a pool of the White’s blood in the lee of a large boulder. It was shallow and part congealed, probably the fruit of one of Loriabeth’s bullets. In the gathering light of the false dawn the blood appeared almost black and deeply uninviting. Clay well remembered his only previous taste of raw White blood and had no desire to repeat the experience, but they had come here in search of answers. Sighing he dipped an empty vial into the pool and scooped up a portion of the blood, careful not to get any on his fingers. He washed the excess away with his canteen and consigned the vial to his wallet before moving to join the others.

They stood around the blackened patch of rock which marked the White’s passing. The fire unleashed by Kriz’s weapon was evidently the result of some clever chemical concoction for it had reduced the beast down to a collection of blackened bones. Its skull was a cracked and wasted thing, though enough of it remained to form an eye socket. Clay couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying to that empty hole.

What did you know? he wanted to ask it, his gaze lost in the dark recess of the skull. Did you have the same purpose as your friend up top?

“The Wittler Expedition powdered up the bones,” Loriabeth said, poking a toe into the ash.

“Then went crazy and killed each other,” Clay reminded her, finally managing to tear his eyes from the White’s skull. “Think they’re best left where they lay, cuz.”

“At least we know they’re not invincible,” Sigoral said. “If we’ve learned nothing else here, there’s that.”

“This one wasn’t whole,” Clay said, shifting his gaze to Kriz. She stood regarding the beast’s remains in silence, apparently lost in thought. He recalled the animal’s comparatively spindly appearance and the mottled nature of its hide. Also, fast as it had been it was still sluggish compared to the only other White he had met. “Something was wrong with it. Had it been full-grown and healthy, we’d likely be the ones all burnt up. Right?” he asked Kriz, raising his voice and pointing to the White’s remains, speaking slowly. “It . . . was . . . sick.”

She met his gaze and gave a brief nod, frowning as she struggled to formulate a response he would understand. “New . . .” she said, grimacing in annoyance then trying again. “New hatched.”

Clay’s mind immediately went to the opening in the cliff they had found the day before. Too regular to be natural and coughing up smoke. “Hatched,” he repeated, pointing at the ground. “Hatched down below, right?”

She nodded, offering an apologetic smile as she gestured to the remains. “This is . . . one. There are . . . many.”

“Well ain’t that just fine,” Loriabeth said, casting a wary gaze around.

“We go,” Kriz said, moving away to gather up her pack. Clay wanted to object, compel her to wait so they could finally trance. But he knew she was right. If there were more they couldn’t linger.

“I’ll take the lead,” he said, donning his own pack and unslinging his carbine. “Lori, follow at a twenty-yard interval. Lieutenant, guard the rear if you please. Keep an eye on the sky. We push hard from here on. No sleep till we reach the shaft.”

They covered perhaps another five miles without incident, their progress inevitably slowed by the increasingly steep landscape. The hills had now become mountains and they were climbing rather than walking. Clay soon felt obliged to surrender the lead to Sigoral, who possessed a keener eye for the most efficient route up the successive slopes, each one more treacherous than the last. Almost all greenery had vanished now, save for the occasional patch of moss. Also the air grew noticeably colder with every passing mile, so that their breath soon began to steam in the chill.

“At least there’s no snow,” Sigoral observed during a brief rest stop. They were required to clamber from one rock to another, putting Clay in mind of children scaling a staircase. After a few hours his leg had begun to ache once more and his chest burned from exertion.

“Guess whoever made it wasn’t overly keen on being too authentic,” Clay replied, taking a long pull from his canteen. He resisted the urge to take another gulp. Their canteens were becoming increasingly light and he hadn’t seen another stream since leaving the ledge where the White met its end.

“Which once again raises the question of who made it and why.” The marine met Clay’s gaze for a second before his eyes flicked towards Kriz, who had perched herself on a boulder a few feet below. “Questions that require answers, Mr. Torcreek.”

“She says we’ll trance again at the shaft. Guessing we’ll get our answers then.”

“If we can trust she intends to keep her word to a bunch of savages.”

There was a bitterness to Sigoral’s voice that Clay didn’t like, and a certain resentment in his expression as he regarded Kriz. “Why don’t you just throw down your scrip, Lieutenant,” Clay said.

Sigoral frowned at him. “My scrip?”

“Old Blinds expression. Means say what you gotta say.”

The Corvantine inched closer, lowering his voice. “I catch her expression sometimes when she thinks we’re not looking. My old captain had a similar look in his eye when he surveyed his crew, but he didn’t bother to hide it. Contempt, Mr. Torcreek. That’s what she thinks of us. To her we are just useful primitives. Which raises the question of what happens when she’s done with us.”

“Or maybe she worries what we’ll do when we’re done with her.”

“A question we also should be pondering.”

Clay held the marine’s gaze for a second longer then looked away. “We’ll keep a keen watch on her,” he said, his tone short. “Best get moving,” he added, jerking his head at the slope ahead.

“I was there when the drakes rose off Carvenport.” Sigoral straightened, shouldering his carbine. “I know what is at stake here. We both have a duty to perform. Rest assured I will perform mine, regardless of how unpleasant it becomes.”

“Then you’d better hope we see things the same way when the time comes.” Clay met his gaze again, holding it for longer this time. Eventually Sigoral’s mouth formed a faint grin before he gave a shallow nod and resumed the climb.

By the time the light began to fade they had reached a point less than two miles from the shaft. It had swelled to monolithic proportions now, rising into the black void beyond the reach of the lights. The urge to press on through the dark was strong, but the route that confronted them forced a pause. They had ascended to the top of a plateau to find that there was only one remaining peak to scale. It was a broad mountain with an artificially flat summit where a building of familiar construction sat. Viewed through the optic of his carbine Clay found it to be a much larger version of the structure on the island, standing at least twice as high, its broad base covering most of the mountain top. The shaft rose from the structure’s roof in all its weird majesty and irresistible promise of escape. However, between them and the mountain stood a ridge no more than five feet across at its widest point. Clay could make out signs of construction along the ridge as it wound its way towards a point less than a few hundred yards from the mountain’s summit. The ridge was littered with patches of flat stone and disordered brickwork bespeaking a once-impressive construction.

“This was a road once?” he asked Kriz, who nodded.

“Very old,” she said. “Need to . . . walk with care.”

“It would be wise to wait for first light before starting across,” Sigoral said, casting an uneasy eye over the steep sides of the ridge. “This is not a place to lose one’s footing in the dark.”

“But we’re so close,” Loriabeth said, nodding at the shaft. “Just an hour or two more.”

“We keep going till it gets dark,” Clay decided, striding forward. “Camp in the middle if we have to.”

“It’s too exposed,” Sigoral contended, gesturing at the sky with his carbine. “If there are more Whites . . .”

“Look around,” Clay replied, taking his first steps onto the ridge. He concealed a sigh of relief when the slabs beneath his boots failed to crumble away. “There’s no more cover to be had here anyways.” He moved on, hearing their footfalls as they followed after a long moment of hesitation.

The track atop the ridge did indeed prove precarious, even treacherous at times. More than once the apparently whole stone slabs on which they walked revealed deep cracks at the mere touch of a boot. Kriz was obliged to save Clay from one near-disastrous tumble down the near-vertical slope after a slab turned to fragments under his foot. She managed to grab hold of his pack in time, dragging him back as they collapsed together.

“Thanks,” he said, his hammering chest adding an unmanly tremble to his voice.

She grinned and nodded, then frowned as her hand pressed against his pack and detected the large round object within. “What this?” she asked.

“Just a souvenir,” he replied, getting to his feet and turning away.

“Egg,” she said, her voice hardening as she rose and hurried after him. “You take egg.”

“Killed its ma. Seemed the least I could do.”

“It hatch. Kill us all.”

Clay’s hand went to the vials around his neck, playing over his growing collection of heart-blood. Only three more for the set. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Besides, without the waking fire it ain’t hatching anytime soon.”

She fell silent though he could sense a lingering discontent. For the first time it occurred to him that Kriz harboured a real hatred for the drakes inhabiting this strange world. The joy she had taken in killing the Blues back at the ocean and the fierceness in her gaze when she took aim at the White told of something more than just the triumph of survival.

He came to a halt, surveying the ruined brickwork around them. It had clearly been a substantial piece of construction in its time, now it was just old stone gradually crumbling to dust. “Wasn’t always like this, huh?” he said, turning back to Kriz. “This place. Something went pretty badly wrong once upon a time. What was it?”

Her face took on a familiar guarded aspect and she merely returned his gaze, saying nothing.

“The drakes,” he realised. “This place wasn’t made for them. It was made for you. They took it over, didn’t they?”

Kriz’s brow creased as she pondered the right response. “Made . . . for both,” she said finally. “They took all . . . as I slept.”

“Uh, Clay,” Loriabeth said. He saw she was standing close to the edge of the ridge, peering at something far below. Clay followed her gaze, eyes scanning the mist-shrouded depths. At first he saw nothing then noted a shimmering through the mist, as if the fading lights had caught the course of a fast-flowing river. Then he saw that it was growing, the shimmer fragmenting into many different points of light glittering on a rising dark tide. He heard the screams then, echoing up to assail his ears with grim familiarity. It was a sound he hadn’t heard since the temple back in the jungle bordering Krystaline Lake, the frenzy song of massed Greens.

They emerged from the mist in a wave, scrabbling over the rocky flank of the ridge. Clay raised his carbine for a closer look and soon realised these were not the pygmies of the forest but similar in size to full-grown Arradsian Greens. They were still different, however, their limbs and tails possessed of the same spindly quality as the White. Also, their hides had the same mottled appearance, something the carbine’s optic revealed to be glistening wet sores in their flesh. None too healthy, he realised, lowering the carbine as the rising mass of Greens swept closer. Still plenty fast enough, though.

Loriabeth started firing, her repeating rifle sending lengthy salvos into the advancing horde and sweeping a dozen or so off the ridge to tumble back into the gloomy depths.

“More here!” Sigoral called, Clay turning to see him standing at the opposite side of the ridge. The marine put his carbine to his shoulder and began to fire, sweeping the barrel from side to side in order to hit as many targets as possible. Kriz moved closer to the edge, her palm slamming a lever on the stock of her bomb-thrower and a now-familiar hatred marring her features.

“Forget it!” Clay said, reaching out to grab the strap of her pack. “There’s too many!” he called to Sigoral and Loriabeth as they continued to blaze away. “We gotta go! Now!”

He paused just long enough to ensure they were following then turned and started to run. His earlier caution was forgotten now as he sprinted across near-vanished walkways and leapt over stunted walls. The frenzy song of the Greens seemed to thicken the air at his back, pushing him on and banishing the ache in his leg. A Green scrambled over the edge of the ridge just ahead, tail whipping as it whirled to face him, jaws gaping. Clay kept running, raising his carbine and letting loose with a stream of bullets as he closed with the drake. The concentrated burst of gun-fire tore into the Green’s forelegs and shoulders, vapourising flesh and bone into a red cloud. The beast screamed and writhed, spraying blood from its myriad wounds. Clay fired again as he neared the thrashing drake, a short burst of fire that blew its head to pieces. He vaulted the corpse and ran on.

The end of the ridge came in view after what seemed a few seconds, by which time the exertion was finally starting to overcome his fear-born energy. His momentary elation died at the sight of the deep crevasse between the ridge and the flank of the peak beyond. Too wide to jump for anyone but a Blood-blessed with Green in their veins. He didn’t pause, stumbling onward and dragging his wallet from the inside pocket of his duster. He gulped down as much Green as he could, covering the final few yards to the end of the ridge in a blur and leaping high. He overshot the gap by several yards, thumping into the side of the mountain with enough force to have shattered several bones but for the Green. He slid to the narrow ledge opposite the ridge and rolled quickly to his feet, finding the three of them gaping at him from the other side. The sense of betrayal on Loriabeth’s face was particularly striking, although Sigoral’s grimace of fury displayed little surprise. Kriz spared him only a glance before she turned about and started firing bombs at the onrushing swarm of Greens. They now covered the ridge from end to end in a dark roiling mass that barely seemed to notice the bombs exploding in its midst.

Clay extracted the vial of raw Black and drank down half the contents, fighting the convulsive retch as the product made a fiery progress to his gut. He took Loriabeth first, lifting her over the gap and depositing her close by. The urgency of the moment left little room for finesse and she gave a pained grunt as she landed on her rump. She shot him a reproachful but nevertheless relieved glare before getting to her feet and taking aim at the Greens. He returned his attention to the far side of the gap where both Sigoral and Kriz were firing furiously at the on-coming drakes. Clay hesitated, the Greens were so close now and it was possible he couldn’t save them both. I need answers, he decided, fixing his gaze on Kriz. Sorry, Lieutenant.

At that moment, however, Sigoral’s carbine fired empty. The Corvantine immediately began to reload but it was clear the Greens would be on him before he managed it. Clay acted through instinct, reaching out with the Black to snare the marine and drag him across the divide. His landing was even harder than Loriabeth’s, slamming into the ledge at a shallow angle and rolling away with unnatural speed thanks to the momentum conveyed by the Black.

Clay immediately refocused his gaze on Kriz. She stood facing the Green horde with her bomb-thrower held limp at her side, apparently empty. The Greens were only yards away now and she gave no sign of panic or even concern as they came on, flames blossoming from the jaws of those in the lead. Clay lifted her clear of the horde just as they reached the end of the ridge, leaping and snapping at her dangling feet. A dozen or more tumbled into the crevasse whilst the rest milled about on the ridge-top, screaming their frustration.

Clay turned Kriz about as he carried her over the gap, looking up to find her smiling down at him as she floated closer. It was a smile he hadn’t seen on her face before, possessing a genuine regard, even affection. He found it so surprising and captivating he failed to notice the Red until it was almost upon her.

CHAPTER 39

Lizanne

“The Emperor’s Ravens and the Iron Watch,” Korian said. “Plus three batteries of artillery and a full regiment of dragoons. That’s just the vanguard. There are at least three other regiments of conscripts a few miles behind.”

The Electress had convened a council to hear the Brotherhood leader report the results of his most recent reconnaissance. She had purloined a command tent from the stores at Hervus which was large enough to accommodate the army’s captains. Lizanne was unsure if she should be reassured or worried by the fact that Atalina had made a point of ensuring Miss Blood attend this meeting.

“Pretty much the entire Household Division,” Arberus mused. “Or what’s left of it after the Scarlet Legion were destroyed at Carvenport. It appears Countess Sefka doesn’t want to take any chances.”

Lizanne found his reflective tones somewhat odd given Korian’s report. Together, the Emperor’s Ravens and the Iron Watch comprised the elite infantry of the Corvantine Imperial army, each possessing a fearsome reputation equal to that of the now-extinct Scarlet Legion.

“At least six thousand men in the vanguard and another nine thousand following,” she said. “We may have gathered plenty of recruits in recent days but not that many.”

“Numbers aren’t everything,” the Electress stated, her words accompanied by a glower that warned against any further unasked-for opinions. “Where?” she asked, turning back to Korian.

“Fifteen miles north-west as of this afternoon. Looks like they’re keeping to the Corvus Road.”

“So they’ll already have encamped for the night,” Arberus concluded. “And won’t be too hard to find, even in the dark.” He straightened, addressing his next words to the Electress. “We should break camp, a night attack offers the best chance of success.”

Lizanne managed to contain her appalled exclamation but others present were not so restrained. “Are you fucking mad?” Varkash asked. “Dis lot against the empire’s finest troops? In duh dark?”

“Better the dark than daylight,” Arberus replied. “The Household Division is a formidable enemy, it’s true. But having fought alongside them, I know their strength lies in the rigidity of their discipline. In close ranks with a clear field of fire they could prove unbeatable, but such discipline comes with a price. The Ravens and The Watch are like automata, responding to orders without thought or individual initiative. Confusion will be our ally, and darkness breeds confusion. Also,” he added after a moment’s pause, casting a reluctant glance in Lizanne’s direction, “all manner of terrors.”

Lizanne’s gaze moved from him to the Electress, who now wore a broad smile. “Miss Blood,” she said, “will be our key to victory.”

“I cannot work miracles,” Lizanne stated flatly. “And there may well be Blood Cadre in their ranks.”

The Electress’s smile broadened further. “Best kill them first, then.”

“Even wid her, it’s too much of a risk,” Varkash persisted, his objection soon echoed by Captain Jarkiv and a few others.

“This is what you fuckers signed up for!” Atalina’s voice cut through the rising babble like an axe blade. She rounded on them, teeth bared and shoulders hunched as if about to charge. “What did you think? It’d be a gentle stroll all the way to Corvus? We paid in blood to escape Scorazin, now it’s time to pay again, but this time we escape the biggest prison of all. Defeat the Household Division and people will flock to us. An ocean of people that’ll sweep all the way to the Imperial Sanctum.”

She stood, glowering at each of them in turn, daring any to raise an objection. They all looked away as her gaze fell on them, except Varkash, who stood returning her glare in equal measure. “If I’d had more of my Fools left after Scorazin . . .” he began.

“You didn’t,” the Electress cut in. “Take your people and go if you’re determined on it. But know that once we bring down this empire the books they’ll write in the aftermath will make full note of Varestian cowardice. Is that really the name you want to carry back to the peninsular? Varkash the shiny-nosed coward, Shame of the Seas? If so, good luck finding another crew.”

Varkash straightened, fists bunching and the slabs of muscle on his bare arms tensing. Lizanne entertained some hope he might launch himself at the Electress, the ensuing chaos facilitating a swift exit from the tent whereupon she would find Tinkerer and make good their escape. Sadly, the threat of a coward’s name evidently outweighed the pirate’s fury. After a long moment of simmering rage he crossed his arms and gave a short nod.

“So then, General,” the Electress said, turning back to Arberus. “What’s your plan?”

“Remember, where their ranks are thickest. The Tinkerer’s new toys lack accuracy.” Arberus held out a revolver, a long-barrelled model presumably scavenged from an unfortunate cavalryman’s corpse at Scorazin.

“This will do, thank you,” Lizanne said, patting the short-barrelled constabulary pistol in the holster under her arm. “Besides, I doubt any amount of arms will make much difference this night.”

“If there was another way . . .”

“Oh, spare me . . . General.”

She turned her back on him and gestured for Hyran to follow her to the edge of the copse where they had secluded themselves to await nightfall. Like her he wore all-black clothes of loose cotton and was armed with a pistol. His hands played over the weapon, twitching a little as he clicked the cylinder. “Stop fiddling,” she told him. “And don’t fire that unless we’re discovered. Until then product is your principal weapon.”

He forced a smile, face pale in the gloom, and consigned the pistol to its holster. “Just wish we had more of it.”

Seeing his wan, tense features, she suppressed the urge to leave him behind. Tonight she would have need of all allies, regardless of ability. “Before this night’s out,” she said, forcing a brisk reassurance into her tone, “I suspect there’ll be product aplenty for both of us.”

She lowered herself into a crouch and moved into the sparse bushes beyond the reach of the trees, motioning for him to follow. “Now?” he whispered.

“I see little point in delay,” she muttered back. “Do you?”

She paused to survey the ground ahead, finding it frustratingly free of cover all the way to the Corvantine picket line. Luckily, it was a lone-moon night so at least the shadows were deep. She cast a glance back at the copse where Arberus waited with the Brotherhood and the hundred or so other mounted troops in the army. A few hundred yards to the rear of them waited the entirety of the Electress’s host, no doubt still tired from the rapid forced march along the darkened Corvus Road. Lizanne considered it a minor miracle no Corvantine scout had discovered their approach. She harboured a faint hope such good fortune might result from an over-confidence on the part of whoever had command of the Imperial expedition. They most likely can’t believe a rag-bag collection of convicts and peasants would attempt something so foolish, she decided, fighting down another flare of rage at Arberus. Not without good reason.

“Green?” Hyran suggested, eyeing the intervening distance with palpable unease. “We could cover the ground in only a few seconds.”

“Raising dust and drawing the pickets’ gaze in the process,” Lizanne replied. She lowered herself into a prone position and motioned for him to follow suit. “It’ll have to be the laborious approach, I’m afraid. Stay two feet behind me. Move as I move and stop when I stop.”

She started forward, covering the first hundred yards in a steady crawl. As the glow of the Household Division’s camp-fires began to grow she lowered herself to her belly and inched her way through the grass in slow, careful increments. She could see the picket line now, tall men in black uniforms patrolling back and forth. The Emperor’s Ravens, she concluded. They were also known as the Black Hearts thanks to the numerous atrocities ascribed to them in the Wars of Revolution. She could make out the face of the closest sentry, finding the stern-eyed, weathered visage of a veteran. Clearly there were no easily scared conscripts to be found in this camp.

She came to a halt and watched the veteran make a slow progress across her path, rifle unslung and held low as his eyes scanned the grass. His gaze swept over the patch of shadows where she lay then moved on, paused and moved back again. Lizanne stifled a curse as the man’s features tensed, well-honed soldier’s instincts no doubt warning of something out of place. He began to move closer, his thumb easing back the safety lever on his rifle with a soft click.

Lizanne heard Hyran give a sharp intake of breath and saw the veteran’s eyes widen in alarm. She depressed the third button on the Spider, injecting a half-second burst of Black and reached out to clamp the soldier in place just as he opened his mouth to call out a warning. She rose to her haunches, looking left and right to check on the position of the other pickets. Fortunately, both had just completed their regular turns and were moving in opposite directions.

Lizanne nudged Hyran to his feet and led him around the frozen veteran in a huddled run. She saw the man’s eyes track her as she moved past him, full of frustration and fury, but also the knowledge of his impending fate. She turned around and back-pedalled, keeping her gaze on the unmoving sentry until they were safely concealed by shadow cast by a large tent. She waited a moment, crouching in the dark until satisfied no other pickets had witnessed their intrusion, then unleashed the last of her Black in a concentrated burst to snap the veteran’s neck. She watched him collapse into the grass then turned and tugged on Hyran’s sleeve, leading him deeper into the camp.

“We don’t have long,” she said, depressing the Spider’s second button. “Drink half your Green and be ready with your Red.”

Lizanne reasoned her quarry would most likely be found close to the centre of the camp. Accordingly she led Hyran in a series of rushes from one shadow to another. It was vital they get as close as possible to their objective before the inevitable hue and cry resulting from the discovery of the sentry’s body. It came just as she found the correct tent. It was large but otherwise nondescript and she might well have passed it by but for the man who stood outside the open flap smoking a cigarillo. A man wearing plain dark clothes instead of a uniform, with a silver pin on the lapel of his jacket. Thanks to the Green the Imperial crest was easy to make out. The man stiffened as the alarm sounded from the southern pickets, frowning and peering into the dark before turning to call to his companions in the tent. Lizanne hoped they were few in number.

“Red,” she told Hyran, pointing him to the rear of the tent. “Set it aflame as soon as you can.”

“What about you?” he asked.

Lizanne drew her revolver and pressed the other two buttons on the Spider, closing her eyes to steady herself against the rush of product. “I’ll take care of this,” she said. “If I die, I leave it to your conscience as to whether to continue with this unwise escapade.”

He gaped at her for a second then gave a jerky nod before crawling away. Lizanne crouched lower and watched as two more Blood Cadre operatives emerged from the tent, a man and a woman. She saw that all three were young, several years her junior in fact. She remembered the fiercely skilled and deadly Blood Cadre agents she had faced at Carvenport, concluding that misadventure must have cost the Blood Imperial many of his most capable children. At least I’ll have the advantage of experience, she thought, trying to quell her impatience as she waited for Hyran to do his part.

The flames blossomed as the three agents began a lively discussion regarding their response to the continuing alarm. Bugles were sounding throughout the camp and soldiers running to retrieve their rifles from neat conical stacks. The woman evidently wanted to investigate immediately whilst her two male companions were decidedly more cautious. It was therefore an easy decision as to which one to shoot when Hyran lit their tent on fire.

All three turned to look as the flames rose, engulfing the rear of the tent and providing a back-drop that rendered them easy targets. The woman dropped as Lizanne put a bullet into the centre of her back. The two men whirled, their inexperience evident in the fact that neither began to reach for their product. Lizanne shot the taller of the two then switched her aim to his companion. This one, however, managed to recover from his shock in time to dive to one side, rolling away with unnatural swiftness as Lizanne’s bullets tore at the earth around him. He didn’t drink, she realised. He has a Spider.

Voicing a soft curse at the many betrayals of Madame Bondersil, Lizanne leapt high as the Cadre agent let loose with a blast of Black. It was a hasty and poorly aimed response, but the wave of force was wide enough to catch her foot before she managed to get clear. She spun end over end, landing hard amidst the flaming remnants of the tent. She used Green to spring to her feet, blasting the encroaching flames away with Black then leaping aside as the Cadre agent opened fire with his revolver.

Over-eager, she judged, ducking under the salvo of bullets as the agent blazed away with more enthusiasm than skill. Red would have been a better choice.

She watched as he managed to assert some measure of control over his actions. Resisting the impulse to fire his final round as his fingers twitched over the buttons of his Spider. Lizanne didn’t allow him the time, reaching out with Black to bend his arm, doubling it over so that the revolver pointed at his face. A final flare of power compressed the bones in his hand with sufficient force to squeeze the trigger, the bullet transforming the agent’s features into a bloody pulp.

Lizanne rushed towards the body of the woman she had shot, keen to retrieve her product, then ducked as a fresh volley of bullets tore the air around her. The speed afforded by the Green in her system was enough to evade the rifle fire, Lizanne dropping and scuttling to the side as dust plumes rose around her. A harsh tumult of shouts sounded and four of the Emperor’s Ravens came charging out of the gloom, rifles lowered, each one tipped with a gleaming bayonet. Lizanne began to summon her Black but stopped as a series of high-pitched whines sounded above her head. All four charging soldiers dropped immediately, jerking as blood erupted from small holes in their tunics. She turned to find Hyran emerging from a cloud of cinders rising from the remnants of the tent. “Smaller is better,” he said, grinning as he held up a thumb-sized stone.

“Come here,” Lizanne instructed, turning back to the female agent’s body. “Roll up your sleeve.”

She quickly removed the Spider from the woman’s limp arm and strapped it onto Hyran’s outstretched limb, all the time casting wary glances around for more soldiers. A steady crackle of rifle fire could be heard from the southern perimeter, indicating Arberus’s mounted skirmishers were busy compelling the Imperial troops into their disciplined ranks. It’s working, she thought. So far.

She tightened the straps fixing the Spider onto Hyran’s arm and pointed to each button in turn. “Red, Green, Black, Blue. The vials are full. The longer you depress the button the more product it delivers.”

She turned back to the Cadre agent’s corpse, rummaging through her jacket pockets until she found the wallet containing the rest of her product. “Here,” she said, handing it to Hyran before running to the body of the first man she had shot. His wallet proved equally rich in product, as did the vials of his Spider. She managed to consign it all to her own pockets before a fresh bout of shouting sounded near by. She recognised the source of the voice, if not the name of the owner. A sergeant, whipping his squad into shape.

“Time to go,” she told Hyran, rising and running towards where she expected to find the Corvantine artillery. “Now’s the time for some Green.”

They moved through the camp in a blur, tearing through canvas and camp-fires. Fortunately, most of the Ravens had already answered the call to muster in ranks so there were only a few stragglers about, none of whom reacted swiftly enough to do more than cast a few useless shots in their wake. The artillery-park was busy with movement as Lizanne brought them to a halt on its fringes. Gunners were hard at work readying the cannon for line deployment whilst others carried powder and ammunition to the wagons. However, most of the powder barrels were still piled in three separate stacks in the centre of the formation.

“Red, I assume?” Hyran asked, flexing his fingers over the buttons of his Spider.

“Not just yet.” Lizanne’s gaze quickly found a squad of gunners heaving powder-bags onto the back of a wagon. “There,” she said, pointing. “Feel free to use your revolver from now on.”

Lizanne eliminated three of the gunners around the wagon by the simple expedient of freezing them in place before shooting them in the head. Hyran dealt with the remaining two in less tidy fashion, managing to hold one still long enough to shoot him in the chest but allowing sufficient time for his companion to sprint off into the darkness.

“Leave that,” Lizanne told him as he sent a flurry of shots after the fleeing gunner. She turned her attention to the wagon, using Black to lift one of the powder-bags clear. She raised it a good twenty feet into the air before injecting a small amount of Red and setting a very small fire burning on the corner of the cotton sacking. She waited for the flame to lick along the bag’s seams then gave it a precisely judged shove, sending it in a high arc towards one of the stacked barrels of powder. The bag detonated a split-second after impacting on the stack, birthing an instant fire-ball and a blast wave of sufficient force to kill any gunners in a thirty-foot radius. Flaming debris landed on the neighbouring stacks resulting in near-simultaneous explosions of equal size and ferocity. Gunners fled in panic as flames spread to the wagons and further explosions added yet more thunder to the general din.

“That will do,” Lizanne commented as the inferno spread throughout the camp. “Now for the hard part.”

They resumed a stealthy approach towards the rear of the Corvantine battle-line. The bulk of the Emperor’s Ravens and the Iron Watch were drawn up in three rigidly ordered lines, unwavering despite the continuing chaos at their backs which would surely have sent conscripted troops into a panicked rout. Lizanne and Hyran concealed themselves beneath a wagon and watched as sergeants and officers paced along the line of troops, calling out stern exhortations. The words “traitorous scum” seemed to be most favoured, along with promises that any captives would be available for “sport” in the aftermath of inevitable victory.

After a short interval a series of orders swept along the line followed by the sound of thousands of rifles being cocked at once. A ripple went through the formation as the first rank knelt and the second switched their rifles to port arms, indicating the first volley was imminent. Lizanne raised her gaze to the dark sky above, injecting Green to enhance her vision as she searched for the first of Tinkerer’s new toys to make an appearance.

She saw it just as the Corvantine officers called out the aim order, a rapidly growing cluster of sparks in the night sky. It rose to a height well over a hundred feet before beginning a downward plunge. Lizanne judged its trajectory would bring it to earth well to the rear of the Corvantine line. She waited until it had descended to less than fifty feet then unleashed a concentrated wave of Black. Unfortunately, the fact that she hadn’t had the opportunity to practice this manoeuvre made this first attempt a clumsy one, the force wave proving too powerful and causing the device to explode in mid air some ten feet above the point where the Ravens’ line joined that of the Iron Watch. Despite this lack of success, the effect was still impressive. Her Green-boosted eyes afforded a clear view of the rocket just before it exploded. It was far larger than the signal rockets used at sea, the case fashioned from iron tubes and packed with small metal shards around a core of black powder. Tinkerer had formulated a propellant capable of projecting such a heavy object through the air to a range of half a mile, but the means of guiding it to a target with any accuracy still apparently eluded him, hence Arberus’s decision to send her on this less-than-palatable mission.

The rocket exploded with a thunderous boom, louder than any cannon shell, sending its deadly cargo down onto the neat ranks of Corvantine soldiery below. Lizanne estimated at least a whole platoon were killed instantly, with double the number wounded. The line rippled in response to the blow, but didn’t break. Sergeants swiftly hauled the dead and maimed away and hounded the survivors into a semblance of order. The middle of the Corvantine line had thinned, but not broken.

Lizanne had more success with the second rocket, reaching out to push it with a series of gentle shoves rather than a single application of force. The results were somewhat spectacular, the rocket exploding just as the tip of the warhead made contact with the earth barely a foot in front of the centre of the Corvantine line. This time it broke, hacked in two by the blast that left a smoking red mound of sundered men in its wake. The complete destruction of almost an entire company in less than two minutes was bound to disorder even the most elite soldiers and Lizanne saw a number of Ravens turn and run. They were quickly shot down by pistol-wielding officers but it was still an encouraging sign.

She brought the next two rockets down on either side of the bloody mound, and within seconds the two regiments stood separated by a gap at least thirty feet wide. A tumult of shouts and discordant bugle cries sounded in the gloom beyond the now-wavering Corvantine line, indicating Arberus had no intention of passing up this opportunity. She could see the charging horde through the gap in the Corvantine ranks, a dense mass of people rushing from the dark, those in front firing their rifles as they ran. She recognised them as a mix of recently recruited townsfolk and ex–Scorazin inmates from the lesser gangs. Apparently Arberus didn’t want to commit his best troops to the first assault.

A volley crashed out from the Corvantine line, ragged and poorly aimed by the standards of regular infantry, but still potent enough to cut down at least a hundred attackers. Lizanne raised her gaze once more, finding three more rockets in the sky, all descending fast. She managed to bring one down close to where an Iron Watch officer was attempting to rally his unnerved company, vapourising the man and sending most of his troops to flight. The other two rockets landed beyond the line without material effect, though the proximity of their explosions proved sufficient to disorder the entire left wing of the line just before the rebel charge struck home.

The two sides came together with final sputter of rifle fire, soon swallowed by the chorus of growls and shouts that told of people engaged in savage close-quarter combat. Whilst a good number of Ravens and Watchmen had fled, there were enough stalwart regulars remaining to put up a stiff fight, but not enough to close the gaping rent in their formation.

As she expected, Arberus was first through the breach, his stallion at full gallop and sabre raised high. His hundred or so mounted troops were close behind, wheeling left and right to assail the Corvantines from the rear. In most engagements of this size an attack by so small a contingent of cavalry would have had little effect, but with the Corvantines stripped of their artillery and beset by determined if inexpert infantry, the charge quickly proved decisive. Soon the Imperial troops had fragmented into a dozen close-packed pockets of resistance, battling desperately against the seemingly unending rebel tide still streaming out of the darkness. The toll on the attackers was high, the Corvantine troops were veterans after all and Lizanne reckoned each accounted for at least three rebels before they fell.

She turned as Hyran stirred at her side, seeing his gaze fixed on a particularly stubborn knot of Watchmen who had gathered into a defensive circle a hundred yards away. The ground surrounding the Watchmen was continually littered with rebel bodies as they fired disciplined volleys into the ranks of the onrushing horde.

“Don’t!” she warned, reaching out to grasp Hyran’s sleeve as he began to crawl from beneath the wagon. “We did our part.”

He shot her a look that was part disgust and part disappointment. “These are my people,” he said, tugging himself free. Lizanne watched him sprint towards the encircled Watchmen, revolver raised and fingers pressing the buttons of his Spider.

Now would appear to be the time, she concluded, taking in the unfolding carnage beyond her hiding-place. Freed of encumbrances, she could make her way to where Tinkerer tended his infernal devices. Anatol would most likely be guarding him, but the battle would provide ample cover for a well-placed shot. She began to shuffle free of the wagon then paused as a figure caught her eye, a slender figure running through the smoke with a rifle in hand. Makario’s eyes were wide and he yelled as he ran, more she assumed in panic than martial enthusiasm. Even so, he pelted towards the still-battling knot of Corvantines with an unfaltering stride, a cluster of rebels at his back.

“Sentiment,” Lizanne muttered, checking her revolver and filling her veins with product, “will surely be the death of me.”

CHAPTER 40

Clay

The Red swept around the flank of the mountain, wings angled to catch the air-current. It was full-grown but sickly like the Greens and the White, but still moving too fast for Clay to shift Kriz clear of its talons. She spun as a claw tore into her side, arching her back and casting out a spiral of blood. Kriz issued a brief, convulsive scream as Clay set her down before turning his gaze to the Red.

The beast fanned its wings and whirled about, tail whipping as it angled its body for a second attack. Clay reached out with the Black to clamp the animal’s head in place. Its body coiled and thrashed as he raised the carbine, centring the glowing circle of the optic on its forehead. His doubts about the power of the weapon’s ammunition proved unfounded as a single bullet between the eyes was enough to render the animal lifeless. He used the last of the Black to throw the sagging corpse against the side of the mountain. It impacted with bone-cracking force and slid to the ground a few yards away, blood streaming in thick rivulets from its pierced skull.

“Clay!” Loriabeth was at Kriz’s side, pressing a bandage to a bleeding gash in the woman’s side. “She needs Green.”

Clay crouched next to Kriz’s head, taking a vial from his wallet and holding it to her lips. She gazed up at him, eyes dull as he tipped the contents down her throat. They brightened as the product did its work, banishing a good deal of her pain and adding much-needed vitality to her body, but it couldn’t do anything to stem the blood streaming from her wound.

“Gotta stitch this up,” Loriabeth said, blood seeping through her fingers from the already soaked bandage. “She’ll bleed to death in moments otherwise.”

Clay’s gaze snapped to the Red’s corpse. He rushed towards it, taking an empty vial and scooping up a portion of the blood leaking from the animal’s skull. His first try at drinking it left him retching with such force he abandoned the attempt. Raw Red, it transpired, was even fouler than raw Black. Cursing, he took his canteen and added a few drops of water to the vial, shaking it to dilute the contents. He steeled himself against the reaction and forced the whole lot down in one swallow, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop his body immediately rejecting the noxious brew.

“Clay!” Loriabeth said.

He staggered as the Red seemed to explode in his gut and would have fallen if Sigoral hadn’t caught him about the waist. “I’m alright,” he said, shrugging free and stumbling back to Kriz. Loriabeth moved aside as he slumped to his knees, pulling away the bandages she had applied to the wound. The sight of the deep, oozing rent in Kriz’s flesh nearly had him retching again but he managed to contain his gorge long enough to summon the product.

“Hold her tight,” he told Sigoral and Loriabeth. “This’ll hurt.”

He placed his hands at one end of the wound, pressing the lips of the cut together then unleashing a thin stream of Red. Kriz shuddered and let out a lacerating scream as her skin blistered under the intense heat, releasing a sickening stench that forced Loriabeth to turn away and heave up the contents of her stomach. Clay continued to work, tracking his gaze slowly along the length of the wound and leaving a hideous track of puckered, smoking flesh in its wake. But it was flesh that no longer bled. By the time he was done Kriz’s screams had faded into a faint whimpering and her body lay slack, her breathing shallow and skin cold.

“Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral said with quiet urgency. Clay glanced up to see him aiming his carbine at the quickly darkening sky. Just visible in the gloom were three winged silhouettes, growing closer by the second.

“Go . . .” Kriz said in a barely audible whisper. Clay looked down to see her bright eyes meeting his as she smiled. “Leave . . . me.”

“Fuck that.” Clay took out another vial of Green and drank it all before gathering Kriz into his arms and rising to his feet. “Stay close,” he told Loriabeth and Sigoral, turning and starting up the slope towards the building at a dead run. “Keep them off us.”

Kriz sagged in his arms as she lost consciousness. Clay fixed his gaze on the building ahead and gave full vent to the product in his veins, resisting the urge to turn as the guns of his companions barked into life. Drake screams and blasts of heated air chased him up the slope, all the way to the building, which, he saw with a plummeting heart, appeared to be undamaged and lacking any obvious point of entry.

He sagged against the building, laying Kriz down before turning about just in time to see Loriabeth hack a Red out of the sky with a concentrated burst from her repeating rifle. The beast crashed to earth a dozen feet away in a tangle of wings and dying flame, twitched and lay still. The other Reds screamed and wheeled away, weaving to and fro as Sigoral’s bullets tracked them across the sky. They retreated out of range of the guns and began to circle, calling out their piercing cries all the while.

“What are they waiting for?” Loriabeth wondered.

Clay’s enhanced vision picked out a distant shape above the jagged peaks. At first he took it for a cloud, then realised his mistake. Beyond the occasional patch of mist, this was a world without clouds. The shape soon grew and his unnaturally keen sight left no doubt as to its true nature. Reds. A whole flock of Reds.

“Reinforcements,” Clay told his cousin, turning and casting his gaze around. Where is it? He found it at the corner of the building, a free-standing plinth identical to the others. Rushing towards it he slapped his palm to the crystal, sighing in explosive relief at the grind of stone as a section of wall slid aside to create an entrance. He gathered Kriz into his arms and rushed inside, the others following quickly. They moved into the cool dark interior then stopped, turning to regard the open entrance.

“How do we close it?” Sigoral asked.

Clay’s frantic gaze searched the surrounding gloom, finding no sign of another plinth. “Don’t think we can,” he said. “Guess when they built this place they weren’t overly concerned with locking their doors behind them.”

“Cuz.” Loriabeth stood staring at the fast-approaching flock of Reds, less than a mile off now and closing quickly.

“Take her,” Clay said, placing Kriz in Sigoral’s arms then rushing towards the entrance. He ran outside and moved to the plinth before taking out his wallet and extracting the vial of raw Black. He could hear the Reds now, the flock voicing a collective cry rich in hungry malice. He drank all the Black, swallowing with hard jerking gulps as it coursed down his throat to his gut. The burn of it provoked an agonised shout and he fell to his knees, gasping air into his lungs then pressing his hand to the crystal.

He sprinted for the entrance as the grinding rumble rose again, the section of wall sliding closed with aggravating swiftness. He lashed out with the Black just as it came within a few inches of closing. The huge stone slab resisted the pressure at first, the hidden mechanicals pushing it were strong, but the Black was stronger. Clay maintained a steady pressure, widening the gap to an inch, then another, sweat coursing down his forehead as he felt the Black diminish with alarming rapidity.

He could see Loriabeth and Sigoral on the other side, hands clutching the slab as they tried to widen the gap. Loriabeth called his name, the sound of which was barely audible above the rising fury of the Reds’ hungry chorus. Clay kept his gaze locked on the edge of the door, pushing and pushing until the gap widened to almost a foot.

Feeling the last vestiges of Black fade from his veins, he lunged forward. Sigoral caught his arm and hauled him through just as the door slammed shut behind, sending a booming echo through the structure.

Clay spent a few moments on his knees, dragging air into his lungs before he regained the strength to stand. He rose, surveying the building’s interior as Loriabeth lit her lantern. They were in a broad central chamber, the surrounding walls interrupted by several entrances. Clay moved to the closest one, peering at the symbols carved on either side but finding them unfamiliar, resembling a curved diagonal cross.

“Look for something that looks like an eye,” he told the others, gulping Green and moving to the next entrance. His boosted sight found it a few moments later, the upturned eye flanking a corridor, the depths of which were lit by a soft glow. “This one,” he said, rushing to gather Kriz into his arms.

They hurried along the corridor and out into another larger chamber. Loriabeth and Sigoral drew up short at the sight confronting them, although Clay had little time to wonder at the crystal floating above a huge stone egg. Like the chamber where they had found Kriz, the egg stood on a raised dais, bathed in the soft white light cast by the crystal.

“Cuz?” Loriabeth asked, voice heavy with uncertainty as he moved swiftly to the dais.

“It healed me,” Clay said, stepping into the crystal’s light. “It’ll heal her.”

He gently set Kriz down on the dais, settling her onto her side so that her ravaged back was presented to the crystal. “Come on,” he implored in a whisper, stepping back, gaze locked on the slowly rotating stone. “Do it . . . Do it!”

The crystal continued its serene rotation for several long seconds then Clay detected a subtle flicker deep in its facets. A new beam lanced out from the crystal to envelop Kriz. She groaned in response, limbs twitching and features tensing. Clay resisted the impulse to pull her clear of the light, focusing on her wound. After a few seconds he saw the redness surrounding the ragged puckered line in her back begin to fade. He kept watching to ensure it wasn’t some trick of the mind, finally letting out a relieved laugh as the redness faded almost completely. Soon the glistening blistered flesh around the cauterized wound had begun to re-form itself, smooth skin replacing raw tissue.

“How’d you get it to do that?” Loriabeth asked, moving closer, eyes wide in fascination.

“I didn’t,” Clay said, staring up at the crystal. “I think it’ll heal any wounded body that comes into range of its light. It’s what it does.” He lowered his gaze to the egg, still bathed in the crystal’s light, which hadn’t faltered with the appearance of the second beam. “It keeps things alive,” he added in a soft murmur, eyeing the tightly sealed joins in its side where the segments fit together.

“Back here!” Sigoral called from the far end of the chamber, voice high with uncharacteristic excitement.

As Loriabeth answered the Corvantine’s call, Clay knelt to check Kriz’s breathing, finding it smooth and regular. Touching a hand to her forehead, he found the skin warm but free of fever. The only sign of distress was a slight flutter to her eyelids.

“Might wanna come see this, Clay!” Loriabeth called, just as excited as Sigoral.

He found them standing next to a plinth several yards away from the dais. It sat close to the edge of a twelve-foot-wide circular indentation in the floor. Hearing the echo birthed by his footsteps, Clay looked up. The shaft rose into the gloom above, the length of the echo indicating it went a very long way up.

“We made it, Cuz,” Loriabeth enthused, coming closer to hug him tight. “We’re finally getting out.”

“We need to know it works first,” Sigoral said, gesturing at the plinth.

Clay disentangled himself from his cousin, giving the plinth a brief glance before turning back to the crystal. “All in good time,” he said.

“Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral said, stepping into his path and jabbing an insistent finger at the plinth.

“Not quite ready to try it yet, Lieutenant,” Clay replied, stepping around him. “Kriz ain’t fully healed. And we don’t have what we came for.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral stated in an unambiguous tone of command. Clay turned to find the Corvantine regarding him with a steady, determined gaze, the butt of his carbine against his shoulder.

“I ain’t on your crew, Lieutenant,” Clay reminded him. “And I didn’t come all this way to leave without answers. We ain’t done here.”

“I am done here.” Sigoral raised his carbine, centring the sight on Clay’s chest.

Seeing the hard, implacable determination in the Corvantine’s gaze Clay recalled the words of Silverpin’s ghost. You led a lot of people into certain death . . . it wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d had a choice. But whatever compulsive power she alluded to didn’t appear to be working on the lieutenant just now. Just like hers didn’t work on me.

“Thought you had a duty,” Clay said.

“My duty is to return home and report everything I’ve seen here.”

“And what good’s that gonna do if no one understands it? Do you? Got any answers to share? Some great insight the rest of us missed, maybe?”

“Enough of this shit,” Loriabeth said, moving to wedge herself between them, pushing Sigoral’s carbine aside.

The Corvantine met her gaze, jaw clenching as he tensed. “I have no desire to see you hurt, Miss Torcreek,” he said. “But I have to get out of here. We have to get out of here. You know I’m right. It’s only a matter of time before some fresh horror appears. And I suspect our luck is wearing thin.”

“Like my patience iffen you don’t lower that weapon,” Loriabeth grated, returning his glare in full measure.

“No . . . way . . . out.”

They turned at the sound of Kriz’s thin, croaking voice. She was on her feet, leaning heavily on the curved flank of the huge stone egg. Although the crystal’s healing light continued to bathe her, she regarded them with bright, pain-filled eyes, features pale and slack from blood loss.

“What?” Sigoral demanded, the muzzle of his carbine moving to point at her.

“No . . . way out,” Kriz repeated, raising a hand in a weak fluttering gesture at the shaft above.

“This will take us out,” Sigoral insisted, stepping closer to her. “It leads back to the surface.”

“Not . . . now,” she told him, her hand falling limply to her side. “Too much . . . ice.”

“Ice?” Sigoral’s face took on a reddish tinge as he moved closer to Kriz, speaking through clenched teeth. “Enough riddles. Tell me exactly what you mean.”

“Ice . . . less when we . . . built it all,” Kriz replied, then winced as a spasm of pain wracked her. “Not any more. So many . . . years.”

“What?” Sigoral demanded, moving closer still.

“The ice,” Clay said. “She means it was thinner in her day. Guess it’s built up over the years to cover this whole place. The spire was the only bit of it still visible.” He glanced up at the shaft. “Even if we get to the top of this, there’s no way out.”

“Then why,” Sigoral grated at Kriz, finger twitching on the carbine’s trigger, “did you bring us here?”

Kriz blinked her too-bright eyes and turned towards the egg, running her hand over the surface. “To see . . . my father.”

CHAPTER 41

Hilemore

“. . . and so I commend my soul to the King of the Deep,” Hilemore read. The logbook lay open on the desk before him, just as he found it on entering the cabin occupied by the Dreadfire’s captain. “I avow my firm knowledge that He, alone amongst all the gods, will afford me the most fair and careful judgement. To any who may one day read these words know that I die with the greatest contrition burning in my heart. I have lived as a pirate, but I perish as a penitent. Signed Arneas Bledthorne, Master of the Dreadfire, on this day 17th Termester in the Queen’s Year 1491.”

“Pretty way with words for a pirate,” Skaggerhill observed.

“Yes.” Hilemore scanned the finely rendered script flowing across the page. “I suspect Captain Bledthorne may well have been a fellow of some education.”

“Fat lot of good it did him,” Scrimshine muttered, casting a glance at the corpse lying on the cabin’s only bunk. Despite the many decades since his death, the cold ensured Arneas Bledthorne’s body retained a fair amount of its flesh, desiccated and blackened though it was. His stiff, grey hands lay on his chest, one of the fingers still lodged in the trigger-guard of an antique flint-lock pistol. A large hole in the top of the captain’s skull provided further evidence of how he had contrived to make his exit from the world. Before undertaking his final repose Bledthorne had clad himself in a fine set of well-tailored clothes, the cuffs and lapels braided with gold in the manner of an admiral. So far this was the only gold they had found aboard the Dreadfire.

“Don’t s’pose he makes mention of where he stashed his treasure, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked Hilemore, brows raised to a hopeful angle.

“If he had any treasure he didn’t feel compelled to record it here.”

Hilemore leafed through the log, noting how each entry grew shorter as the voyage progressed towards its fateful conclusion. It told a tale of thievery, murder and mutiny, all recorded in Bledthorne’s unwaveringly elegant script and eloquent phrasing. It appeared the Dreadfire had encountered a full squadron of Royal Mandinorian Navy ships after an abortive attempt to seize a freighter off the south-east Arradsian coast. In response Captain Bledthorne embarked upon a series of desperate navigational gambles in an effort to evade his deserved meeting with the hangman. The farther south they sailed the more fractious the crew became, forcing the captain to resort to what he termed, “Mortal punishment, undertaken with the barbed, three-tongued whip, for it creates the more lasting impression on the weak-minded.” After that the log became a grim litany of repeated mutiny and bloody murder until Bledthorne found himself sailing alone in icy waters, reduced to a mere passenger on a ship he had no crew to sail. Hilemore doubted the judgement afforded by the King of the Deep would have been as merciful as Bledthorne hoped.

Hilemore looked up as a heavy hand knocked on the cabin door. “Enter.”

Steelfine came in, standing to attention before the desk and saluting smartly. “Inspection complete, sir.”

“Excellent, Number One. In what state do we find our new command?”

“The hull is intact below the water-line, sir. Benefit of the iron-cladding, I assume, else the ice would have crushed her long ago. There’s cordage aplenty too, though we’ll have to spend time thawing it out before it’s of any use. Life-boat’s intact and fully oared. The sheets are more of a concern.”

Hilemore nodded in sober acknowledgment. The Dreadfire’s masts were bare of canvas, the sails no doubt having been torn away by the polar winds over the course of many years. “Do we have any?”

“There’s spares in the hold, sir, but not enough for every mast. I’m confident she’ll make headway, but it’ll be a canter rather than a gallop.”

“You are familiar with the intricacies of sail then, Mr. Steelfine?”

“My first ship was all-sail, sir. Some things you never forget.”

“Very good, Number One. I hereby appoint you Sailing Master of the newly acquired Ironship Protectorate Vessel Dreadfire. Mr. Scrimshine will undertake the duties of helmsman. Mr. Skaggerhill, I request you act as the ship’s physician and quartermaster for the time being. Supplies will have to be strictly rationed from now on. Also, Green will be administered at your discretion.”

The harvester gave a cautious nod. “Happy to do my part, Captain. Probably a good idea if you ask Preacher to take the crow’s nest, put those eyes of his to good use.”

“A fine suggestion, sir.” Hilemore glanced down at the log once more. “All appointments to be recorded in the ship’s books just as soon as I find something to write with. Mr. Steelfine, let’s get those sheets unpacked.”

“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted again. “There was just one other thing, sir. Something you should see, in the hold.”

Hilemore saw Scrimshine straighten immediately, eyes suddenly agleam with interest. “Don’t be telling me you found the treasure, Mr. Steelfine.”

The Islander turned to the former smuggler and Hilemore saw the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. “Oh, it’s treasure to be sure. And plenty of it.”

“I estimate three tons altogether.”

The cargo filled approximately half the hold and Hilemore quickly intuited the contents from the construction of the barrels. Wooden braces and pegs, no metal of any kind. “Three tons of powder,” he said.

“Not quite, sir.” Steelfine went to the nearest barrel, the lid of which he had already levered open. Hilemore moved closer, seeing that the contents were concealed within in a tight oilskin wrapping. Steelfine pulled the covering aside to reveal what appeared at first glance to be a dense mass of fragile, fibrous linen.

“Whassat stuff?” Scrimshine enquired, leaning closer with his lantern raised then stepping back as Steelfine placed a firm hand on his chest.

“Gun-cotton,” Hilemore said. “An accelerating agent possessing six times the blasting power of black powder.”

“Not used on a Protectorate ship for near twenty years,” Steelfine added. “Since the unfortunate incident in Feros harbour.”

“Is it still potent?” Hilemore asked.

“Seems likely, sir. The wrapping will have kept out the moisture and the cold’ll kill any corrupting agents in the air.”

“Best sling it all over the side, Skipper,” Scrimshine said, taking another step back holding his lantern out behind him. “One spark’ll tear this whole ship to splinters.”

Hilemore ignored him and turned to Steelfine. “The state of the ship’s guns, Number One?”

“A dozen eight-pounders on the upper deck, sir, all undamaged with twenty iron round shot each. The firing mechanisms are archaic and unfamiliar but I’m pretty sure I could reckon out how to get them working.”

“See to it once we’re underway. I shouldn’t like to run into any Blues without guns.”

“Aye, sir.”

It took another day to get the sails rigged. The task was prolonged by the need to thaw out the dense, frozen mounds of rope required to affix the sheets to the masts. The stove in the galley, fortuitously stocked with a decent supply of coal, was duly fired up and the cordage piled around it. By morning they were able to start the rigging. At Steelfine’s insistence the mainmast received the bulk of the sails, with the fore and mizzen afforded the remaining canvas. Hilemore had some familiarity with sailing-ships, the basics were still taught to cadets at the Maritime Protectorate Academy, but it was clear that Steelfine’s knowledge of this fast-disappearing art far outstripped that of every man on board. Consequently, Hilemore felt it prudent to leave the handling of the ship to the Islander whilst he busied himself with an inspection of the charts bequeathed him by the unfortunate Captain Bledthorne. They had consigned the pirate’s remains to the deep following a brief ceremony the previous evening, mainly to allay the perennial superstitions of the men. It went against custom to deny the King of the Deep his due.

Hilemore’s study of Bledthorne’s charts swiftly led him to the conclusion that, whatever the man’s failings as both pirate and human being, his navigational skills had been of a very high order. The charts were all of the finest draughtsmanship and each of the Dreadfire’s course changes carefully plotted to within the nearest fifty yards. Bledthorne had also been scrupulous in annotating his charts with items of navigational interest, such as previously unrecorded reefs or dangerously swift currents. It was therefore a simple matter for Hilemore to track the course of the ship all the way from its luckless encounter off the south-western Arradsian coast, across the Myrdin Ocean and into these frozen wastes where she found her temporary grave.

He was surprised to find that the final position plotted by Bledthorne put the Dreadfire over one hundred miles to the north-east of her current situation. Hilemore’s finger traced along the dotted pencil-line through a blank section of chart. In Bledthorne’s day the southern polar region had received only minimal exploration and it was common practice for cartographers to leave large tracts of the southern reaches empty save for the words “Unknown—Navigate at Own Risk.”

Got her through the bergs in high summer, he mused, tapping the black circle at the terminus of the dotted line. But didn’t have the hands to sail her out again. Winter came and the ice closed in to claim its prize, dragging her ever farther south. Bledthorne had kept hold of the vessel’s original registration documents which revealed her to be an armed merchant trader named the Pure of Heart, apparently one of the first vessels beyond the Royal Mandinorian Fleet to be built with an iron-clad hull. The pirate was right about one thing, Hilemore thought, running a hand over one of the ship’s thick oak beams. Tough old bird like you deserved a better name.

They got underway around midday, Steelfine’s shouted order to unfurl the sails easily carrying the length of the ship. In response the men in the rigging undid the bindings and the sails fell free to billow in the stiff breeze blowing from the south-west. “Won’t be able to keep true north at this gauge, Skipper,” Scrimshine warned, steadying the Dreadfire’s massive wheel with practised ease.

“As long as you keep us pointing away from the south and clear of any bergs I shall be well satisfied, Mr. Scrimshine.” Hilemore’s gaze tracked over the sails. The breeze was sufficient to put them in motion but he doubted the Dreadfire would manage more than two knots with such meagre canvas aloft.

“Could throw all unnecessaries overboard, sir,” Scrimshine suggested, reading Hilemore’s expression. “Lighten the load. That blasted cotton stuff would do for a start.”

“I’d sooner throw you over the side,” Hilemore told him with a brisk smile before moving to where Steelfine tended to an eight-pounder gun on the starboard mid-deck. “Reckoned it out then, Number One?”

“Not a lot to reckon, sir,” the Islander replied. He used a small penknife to scrape frost from the weapon’s touch-hole then leaned down to blow the powder away. “Pack in a measure of gun-cotton, ram the shot home on top of it, fill the touch-hole with powder then set it off. It’ll go bang for certain, just not sure what state the gun will be in afterwards. So many years in the freezing air can’t have been good for the metal.”

“We’ll undertake a test-fire when she’s ready, use only a small amount of propellant.”

“Aye, sir.” Steelfine glanced up at the partially rigged masts above, lowering his voice, “Permission to speak in candid terms, sir?”

“Of course, Number One.”

“Barring a miracle we’re more likely to starve before we see another Blue. At this speed we’ll need three weeks to reach open water, and we only have food enough for one.”

“I saw food barrels in the hold.”

Steelfine nodded. “Corn meal and salt-beef. But after so many years I find it hard to credit it could still be edible.”

Hilemore made a show of inspecting the cannon’s wheeled carriage for the benefit of any men who might be watching. “As far as the crew are concerned,” he said. “It’s all edible thanks to the miraculous preserving properties of the polar climate. But we’ll stick to our own supplies for now. Might as well use it up, eh?”

“Very good, sir.”

After two days’ sailing Hilemore estimated they had moved a little under ten miles in a generally northern direction. Only five miles south of where we found the spire, he mused, studying the chart he had kept since starting this voyage. In addition to the lack of sail and anaemic winds, progress was further slowed by the need for Scrimshine to navigate around the bergs drifting continually into their path. The ice, fragmented by the mysterious forces that had warmed the region’s waters, was an unpredictable foe. The air was often riven by the thunderous sound of bergs colliding or collapsing under their own weight and more than once Scrimshine was obliged to spin the wheel into a blur to counter the effect of the resultant waves.

“Report from the crow’s nest, sir,” Steelfine’s voice called from beyond the cabin door. Hilemore went out onto the deck, looking up to see Braddon Torcreek pointing to the north. The Contractor captain had been an almost entirely silent presence since they found the Dreadfire, the grief etched deep into the lines around his increasingly hollow gaze. Consequently Hilemore felt a certain guilty relief when the man joined Preacher in the nest on the first day, opting to remain aloft ever since.

Hilemore strained to hear Braddon’s shouted report, grimacing in frustration at the vagueness of it, “Think you’d best see this yourself, Captain.” He went to the mainmast and began the arduous journey up the rigging to the crow’s nest, a task he hadn’t been obliged to undertake since his days as a junior lieutenant. Diminished rations had left him in a poor state for such exertions and he found himself concealing an embarrassing wheeze as he hauled himself into the nest.

“A few points west of due north,” Braddon said, handing him a spy-glass and pointing towards the horizon. Hilemore found it quickly, his heart leaping at the sight of what first appeared to be the tell-tale plume of smoke rising from the stack of a ship. This delusion was quickly dispelled, however, when he gauged the size of the ascending column and its overly dark colour. It rose from a position just within the curve of the horizon and he didn’t need his chart to discern the source.

“Mount Reygnar,” Hilemore said. “Come back to life. Which would explain a great deal.” He lowered the glass, taking in the sight of the fractured ice-shelf surrounding the smoking mountain. The sea was clear at the peak’s base, forming a wide circular lake free of bergs. Tracing southwards in a zigzag course, a comparatively clear channel wound its way to the Dreadfire’s current position. “There must be a fissure running along the sea-bed,” he mused aloud. “The mountain is but a part of it. Beneath us a great deal of molten rock is leaking through the earth’s crust.”

“Seems awful coincidental it would start leaking so when it did,” Braddon said. Hilemore took some gratification from the slight animation to the man’s voice, a sign that perhaps he might not succumb completely to grief after all. “Clay . . .” Braddon faltered for a moment, then swallowed and carried on. “Clay said the city he found beneath that mountain in the Coppersoles was built atop a lake of molten rock. If the same folks built the spire, could be it was connected to this fissure in some way.”

“It could,” Hilemore conceded, once again experiencing the uncomfortable sensation of being dwarfed by the enigma of their discoveries. “In any case, at least we know the way ahead is clear, perhaps all the way to the Chokes.”

“Where your lady-love will be waiting with the Superior.”

“Captain Okanas is not my lady-love.” Hilemore’s tone was curt and he bridled a little until he saw the faint glimmer of humour in Braddon’s eye. Hilemore coughed and raised the spy-glass once more. “I shall need to sketch this,” he said. “Plot a more efficient course.”

“So we don’t starve to death in the meantime, you mean?”

“We have provisions in the hold . . .”

“Which raises the question as to why we’re still on rations,” Braddon interrupted. “Perhaps it’s time to break open a few of those casks. I’m willing to risk my guts on a bite or two. Something I learned in the Interior; even the most reliable folk are unwilling to follow sound orders when true hunger sets in.”

Hilemore spent a moment studying the winding channel through the ice. Even with the benefit of a tightly plotted course their existing supplies would be exhausted long before they came in sight of the Chokes. Over the last two days he had been increasingly preoccupied with Scrimshine’s tale of his previous journey across the ice. You’ll be surprised how fast a man starts to resemble a side of pork . . . Although his own career had yet to bring Hilemore to such extremes, seafaring history was rich in similar tales of marooned or becalmed crews pushed to bestial measures by hunger. That men under his command would ever find themselves so far removed from humanity was an uncomfortable notion, but as his own hunger grew he began to see an unpalatable truth in the smuggler’s story.

“I believe you’re right, Captain Torcreek,” he said, handing him the spy-glass before leaning over the rope cage ringing the nest and calling down to the deck below. “Number One! Lay anchor, if you please! All crew to report to the galley!”

The crew looked on with stomachs growling at varying intensities of volume as Skaggerhill did the cooking. The harvester mixed a measure of cornmeal into a thin gruel, seasoning the concoction with some salt from the large jar the Dreadfire’s long-vanished cook had seen fit to leave behind. Once spooned onto a tin plate the result had a grey, watery appearance but Hilemore found he had never seen or smelled anything so appetising in his life. Steelfine had all but forbidden him from taking the first meal, volunteering himself instead. “I think Mr. Scrimshine is more deserving of the honour, Number One,” Hilemore told him, a sentiment which met with the helmsman’s immediate enthusiasm.

“It’ll do for me, alright,” Scrimshine said, having wolfed down the entire plate in a few scrapes of the spoon. He held his plate out to Skaggerhill in expectation then scowled when Hilemore told him to wait awhile. After a somewhat tense fifteen-minute interval, during which the helmsman signally failed to keel over with stomach pains or display any other sign of an unfortunate reaction, the crew gave a relieved groan when Hilemore ordered Skaggerhill to dole out the rest of the gruel.

“What about the meat, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked Hilemore after his third helping.

Steelfine immediately started to rise, face darkening but stopped as Hilemore shook his head. He was learning that too tight a leash might not be the best option for a crew in crisis. “Best left be, at least for now,” Hilemore told Scrimshine. “The corn should suffice until we rendezvous with the Superior.”

In truth, he had serious doubts the Superior would still be waiting. Faced with the break-up of the ice, Zenida may well have opted to haul anchor and head north at the best possible speed. Not that I would blame her, he thought. The crew, however, didn’t need to hear him voice his suspicions. Artifice was also valuable in a crisis.

He watched the crew eat, taking heart from the instant lift in their spirits brought on by something as basic as a decent meal. A hum of quiet conversation soon filled the galley, the men sitting straighter as previously gaunt faces took on new colour, even breaking into a smile or two, all of which came to an abrupt end as the sharp crack of a rifle-shot sounded through the decking above their heads.

“Preacher,” Braddon said as the crew surged to their feet and made for the ladders. The marksman had opted to stay in the crow’s nest as they ate, fortuitously as it transpired. Hilemore could see him outlined against the pale sky, standing with his rifle aimed towards the east. A yellow flame erupted from the rifle’s muzzle as Preacher fired again, Hilemore following the line of shot in time to see water cascading down some two hundred paces off the starboard bow. He could find no target for the marksman’s bullet and was about to call up to him when he saw a swell around the point of impact. The water frothed briefly as a set of spines broke the surface, Hilemore glimpsing a speck of blue before the drake dived deeper.

“Is it him?” Scrimshine asked in a panicked rasp.

“No,” Hilemore said, taking out his spy-glass and training it on the spot where the Blue had broken the surface. “Spines were too small.”

He lowered the glass and barked out a series of orders. Soon the crew were all armed and lining the rails, both port and starboard as there was no telling where the beast might appear. They waited for several very long minutes, the surrounding waters remaining placid all the while.

“Maybe he’s just swam off,” Skaggerhill suggested. “Didn’t take kindly to being shot at.”

“The guns, Number One?” Hilemore asked Steelfine.

“One prepared, sir. Got a packet of gun-cotton ready for the test firing.”

Hilemore’s jaw clenched as he rebuked himself. Should have seen to this earlier. “It appears we’ll be undertaking a battle-field test. Make it ready, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted and ran to the eight-pounder, calling a pair of men to assist as he began to drag the gun-carriage back from the port.

“Wait!” Scrimshine said. “Quiet for a moment.” Hilemore turned to find him standing with his head cocked, a frown of deep concentration on his face. “Y’hear that, Skipper?”

Hilemore motioned for Steelfine to halt his preparations and called for silence. He felt it rather than heard it, a faint tremor thrumming the deck timbers beneath his boots. He had to strain to hear the actual sound, a faint rhythmic keening from under the ship that put him in mind of whale-song, though the pitch was much more shrill.

“Blue-hunters call it the Gathering Song,” Scrimshine said, his face losing much of the colour gained during the meal. “That’s how they hunt ’em sometimes, capture a young ’un and torment it so it’ll call out to its pack. The ocean carries sound a far greater distance than the air. The big ’uns come running to answer the call from miles away, smack into the nets strung betwixt the ships.” He gave Hilemore a weak smile. “Don’t s’pose we got any nets aboard?”

“No,” Hilemore said, moving to the rail and staring out at the drifting bergs beyond. “No we do not.”

CHAPTER 42

Lizanne

Arberus found her at first light, smiling despite the scowl she turned on him as Makario stitched the cut to her forearm. The bodies of the last valiant Watchmen lay around them, burnt or blasted into a near-unrecognisable state. Hyran sat near by, knees drawn up to his chest and an unfocused cast to his eyes.

“Come to report a glorious victory, General?” she enquired of Arberus, which made his smile falter a little.

“Victory is never glorious,” he replied, casting a glance around the grisly field. “But we have one nonetheless. The Iron Watch and the Emperor’s Ravens are no more.”

“What about the dragoons?” she enquired. “And all those conscripts?”

“The dragoons were stubborn, the conscripts were not. The Electress is talking to them now. It seems most of their officers had their throats cut last night, and those who didn’t are currently fleeing back up the road to Corvus. A road that now lies open.”

“Congratulations.” She gritted her teeth as Makario drew the suture tight on her cut. “The great General Arberus cements his reputation. I imagine someone is already planning a statue.”

“If so, it’s more likely it’ll be of you than me. The army is abuzz with talk of Miss Blood and her selfless courage.”

“You have Hyran to thank for all this.” She jerked her head at the surrounding corpses, adding inwardly, And Makario to thank for the fact that I’m still here.

“Even so,” Arberus said, “every revolution requires its heroes. Legends inspire, truth does not.”

“If you quote your grandmother at me again I swear I’ll shoot you.”

She watched his smile fade completely and knew any lingering hopes of salvaging their intimacy had gone. Did we ever share more than a purpose? Apparently not.

She forced a smile of gratitude at Makario as he snipped off the suture and mopped the last of the blood from her cut. “Come along, young man,” the musician said, moving to Hyran and tugging him to his feet. “I’m sure somewhere amongst this rabble someone is cooking an approximation of breakfast.”

Hyran merely blinked at him as he allowed himself to be guided from the field, empty eyes tracking over the carnage he had helped create.

“The first taste of battle is always bitter,” Arberus observed. He moved to sit at Lizanne’s side but she rose and turned away, crossing her arms and taking some small sadistic pleasure in allowing the silence to play out to an uncomfortable length.

“When this is over . . .” he began.

“You won’t be returning to Feros,” she finished. “Yes, I had already divined that.”

“Victory in Corvus won’t be the end of this war. An empire that has lasted a thousand years doesn’t just slip easily from tyranny to freedom. Building the republic will be the work of years, decades even.”

“Republic?” She raised an eyebrow in grim amusement. “Bidrosin’s great vision made flesh, at last. Tell me, just how much sympathy does the Electress have for your cherished beliefs? I’m sure her views on revolutionary philosophy make for a fascinating discussion.”

“She is committed to victory, as am I. As to what might happen next . . .”

“She’ll kill you.” Lizanne stepped closer, looking directly into his eyes so there would be no mistaking her certainty. “Once she’s done slaking her thirst for vengeance on the Corvantine nobility, she’ll kill you and anyone else who might pose a threat to her power. To her this empire is just Scorazin on a larger scale. If you think otherwise you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.”

“If the Electress also considers me a fool then I’ll enjoy the advantage of having been under-estimated.” His gaze was as steady as hers, his tone suddenly hard. “The true revolutionary does not get to wield power. Their role is to ensure power is transferred to those who were once its victims. Leonis used to say that the world we wanted to build would not welcome us, so steeped were we in blood and deceit. I have been doing this all my life, Lizanne. I know what the Electress is, as I know what I am, and so do you.”

Lizanne dropped her gaze, suddenly weary as the exertions of the previous night bore down on her, demanding sleep. “Everything that happened since I returned to Arradsia has . . . changed me,” she said. “Morsvale, Carvenport, Scorazin, all of it. Like hammer-blows beating me into a new shape. I cannot be who I was, even if I wanted to. I had hoped the same might be true of you.”

“It is,” she heard him insist softly as she walked away. “But it seems the shape I was beaten into is not the one you want.”

The casualties suffered by what was now being termed “The People’s Freedom Army” during its first major victory amounted to some two and a half thousand dead and wounded. The losses were immediately made good by the addition of the mutinous conscripts and the steady stream of civilian volunteers, a stream that became a flood as they resumed their northward march. A host of willing recruits emerged from every town and village they passed on the Corvus Road, so that within a week the army had risen to over sixty thousand people. The new recruits were a decidedly mixed bunch. Older veterans of previous revolutions marched alongside eager sons and daughters, their zeal fired by years of secret education in radical doctrine. As the march towards Corvus continued Lizanne began to see a partial vindication in the Brotherhood’s faith. It seemed the spark of revolution had met willing tinder after all. However, it soon became apparent that the path to the capital would not be the unopposed victory march the Electress envisaged.

“Selvurin clansmen,” Arberus said, skewering the ground with a captured sabre during the Electress’s regular evening council. The sabre’s blade was several inches longer than a typical cavalry weapon with a distinctive tassel of eagle feathers dangling from the pommel. “Attacked some Brotherhood scouts in the woods to the west around noon, made off with six heads by the time reinforcements arrived. We only caught one. He didn’t survive questioning.”

“So Countess Sefka’s relying on northern mercenaries,” the Electress mused, angling her head to inspect the sabre. “Probably paying them by the head.”

“I thought the northern provinces hated the empire,” Lizanne said.

“That they do, dear,” the Electress replied. “But there’s always loyalists in any province. A few of the horse clans sided with the crown during the revolutions. Settled old scores and got rich into the bargain. The fact that they’ve turned up so far south might actually be a good sign. Could mean they’ve been driven out of the north, or the Countess is getting desperate.”

“Desperate or not, they’re a fearsome enemy,” Arberus said. “The finest horsemen in the empire, given to worshipping gods that reward the kin of any who fall in battle. You can be sure we haven’t seen the last of them. We’re having to gather supplies as we move, and I don’t have enough mounted troops to cover every caravan. If they start raiding in earnest it will seriously impede our progress.”

“Clansmen are hunters,” Varkash said. “Like wolves, or eagles,” he added, nodding at the tassel on the sabre. “Every eagle has a nest. We have but to find it.”

Lizanne sighed as all eyes in the tent turned to her. “I’ll need a faster horse,” she said.

From the high quality of its tack and comfortable saddle she divined the horse had been captured from a fallen Dragoon officer. It was a dappled-grey stallion several hands taller at the shoulder than her cart-horse and considerably faster. Nevertheless it took her two days to find the main Selvurin camp. She started at the scene of their most recent attack, a raid on a supply caravan that left all the drovers headless and their wagons burnt or empty. She followed the tracks for several miles until they disappeared into dense woodland some ten miles west of the Corvus Road. The clansmen were evidently skilled in concealing their tracks, which made finding them a tortuous business.

Lizanne rode west at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals to inject Green which allowed her enhanced hearing to catch the distant sound of voices through the trees. She found a number of smaller encampments but steered clear of them, pushing on until the whisper of voices revealed by the Green grew to a steady murmur. As Lizanne drew closer her nose proved more useful than her ears thanks to the rising scent of dung, both horse and human. When it grew into a stench she dismounted and climbed the tallest tree she could find, thin tendrils of rising smoke soon revealing the whereabouts of the clansmen’s den.

Lizanne checked her timepiece and settled herself as comfortably as she could into the tree’s branches, watching the camp below. In total she estimated this clan to number close to three thousand individuals. They had concealed themselves in a broad clearing deep in the forest. Conical shelters of animal hide clustered around camp-fires as riders came and went. She could also see women at work about the camp and, running between the shelters, a large number of children at play. The Selvurin, it seemed, took their families with them when they went to war. In a circle in the centre of the camp were a number of wooden stakes arranged into a circle, each topped with a round object. Lizanne didn’t need to enhance her vision to know what those objects were.

Savages, she thought, as she watched the infants play among the impaled heads. Savages with children.

At the allotted hour she injected a short burst of Blue and slipped into the trance. I see you’ve been busy, she observed to Hyran, taking note of his refashioned mindscape. The swirling carnal mélange had been replaced with what appeared to be the interior of a shop. A tall bank of small drawers rose behind the gleaming oak counter and the words Robian and Sons Fine Spices were painted in mirrored Eutherian on the window. From what she could see of the exterior the shop was situated in the main commercial district of the capital and the street outside busy with people, though they were indistinct, ghostlike wisps.

My grandfather’s shop, Hyran explained, one of the many drawers opening and the face of an old man rising from the powdery contents. It was a kindly face, but also very sad. He took me in when Ma and Pa were killed. Did his best by me but the Cadre always watching the place didn’t do much for custom. When he died the bailiffs took it all.

I’m sorry, she said. It seems a . . . pleasant place.

Smell’s what I remember most. All those different spices mixed together. Haven’t managed to make it yet.

Memory requires context to be truly vivid. Think about the first time you came here, that’s when your mind formed the dominant impression of this place.

The shop shimmered around her as Hyran concentrated, the drawers opening to form more powdery images; the kindly old man, this time sinking to his haunches to offer a sweet to a skinny boy. The shimmer stopped and the images faded, leaving behind an aroma that brought a tingle to the nostrils whilst also conveying a sense of comfort.

Yes, Hyran thought. That’s it. Thank you, miss.

My pleasure. She summoned a memory of her own: the Selvurin camp and a mental sketch of its location in relation to the army, along with the position of the outlying smaller camps. Tell the general he’ll need to move quickly.

I will. He asked that you remain in place, to guide the rockets. The Tinkerer should have his devices in a firing position by nightfall.

The rockets . . . She stilled her whirlwinds as they took on a ragged, distressed appearance. Very well, she told Hyran.

Are you alright, miss? he asked, meaning his perceptive powers in the trance had improved more than she liked.

Quite alright, thank you. Please assure the general of my willing co-operation.

She blinked in the sunlight as the trance faded, her vision soon clearing to reveal the Selvurin camp. The children were still playing amongst the small forest of impaled heads, laughing as children do.

“Oh bother!” she grunted and began to climb her way down from the tree.

She reined in on the edge of the clearing and waited. Selvurin pickets were not long in detecting her presence, the nearest coming on at full gallop with his sabre drawn only seconds after she appeared. Lizanne let the clansman get within ten feet before blasting him from the saddle with a surge of Black. He connected with the ground in an untidy tumble, Lizanne hearing the crack of at least one broken bone before he came to a halt. His five comrades, who moments before had also been charging towards her at full pelt, dragged their mounts to a swift halt. After exchanging a few shouts of puzzled alarm they began to draw rifles of antique appearance from the leather sheaths on their saddles.

“Don’t!” Lizanne shouted in her perfect Selvurin. “Unless you wish a coward’s death!”

The sound of their own language, spoken by a Blood-blessed no less, sufficed to give them pause. Her study of the northern empire had been limited mostly to linguistics but she did possess a rudimentary knowledge of clan customs and traditions, one of which included a lingering attachment to superstitious notions regarding the Blessing.

“If this rabble has a leader!” she went on. “Bring him forth or let him be forever known as Piss-britches!” She wasn’t entirely sure she had phrased this insult correctly. However, it seemed to carry sufficient gravity for her would-be assailants to respond with the expected glowers, though they made no further move to attack her. One of them growled something to another, who turned his mount around and galloped towards the camp. Lizanne turned her back on the remaining clansmen and waited. She knew them to be an intensely status-conscious people and one so exalted as her did not acknowledge an inferior unless necessity required it.

It didn’t take long for the clan leader to respond to her challenge. Within minutes a retinue of two dozen riders raised a tall column of dust as they came galloping from the camp. They were led by two men, one young, one old. The younger of the two rode partially in front of the old man who, Lizanne saw, carried a gourd of some kind which he held tight to his chest.

The pair reined in a short distance from Lizanne, their followers spreading out on either side. She made note of the fact that they had all drawn their sabres. The younger rider was lean almost to the point of thinness with the pale complexion and dark hair typical of the northern provinces. He wore a short beard and moustache waxed into spear-points that contrasted somewhat with the unconstrained chest-length beards of his clansmen. In all other respects, however, his appearance was every inch that of a leader of a horse clan. He was clad in leather britches and vest, arms bare to reveal his scars and a red-silk scarf on his head braided in silver.

He returned Lizanne’s scrutiny in full before trotting his horse forward and coming to a halt barely six feet away. Unlike his men he hadn’t drawn his sabre, nor did he share their evident trepidation at being confronted by a Blood-blessed. “‘Piss-britches,’ eh?” he asked her in finely spoken Eutherian, grinning a little.

“I needed to talk to you,” she explained, also slipping into Eutherian.

“And what would the famous Miss Blood have to say to me, pray tell?” His grin broadened a little as her face betrayed a tic of surprise. “Oh yes, I know your story. We wrung it out of some radical shit-eater a few days ago. He said something about you wreaking justice upon our barbarian souls, before we cut his tongue out, that is.”

Lizanne resisted the sudden urge to forget her good intentions, kill this savage with a lashing of Black and ride off into the forest. But she could see the other clan-folk gathering to watch this diverting exchange, children chattering excitedly amongst the throng. “You need to leave this place,” she said. “Abandon whatever arrangement you have with Countess Sefka and go home.”

“Fifty crowns per head,” he said. “That’s our arrangement and so far it’s proving highly lucrative. Can your rebel friends match that? If not, it seems we have little to discuss.”

He turned and gave a nonchalant wave to the old man, who duly trotted his mount closer. Although he did his best to hide it behind a fierce glower, Lizanne could see he was markedly more nervous of her than his clan leader. It was there in the way his bony hands twitched on the gourd held close to his chest, a gourd she could now see was inscribed all over with runes.

“This is Tikrut,” the younger man said in Selvurin. “Blood Shaman to the Red Eagle Clan. See his mighty power and tremble, foreign witch.” The sardonic lilt to the clan leader’s voice indicated a less-than-serious attitude to this confrontation, a sense of ritual performed for the sake of appearance.

The old man managed to maintain his glower as he met Lizanne’s gaze, though his bony neck bulged as he began to speak in a low guttural chant. The words were gibberish to Lizanne’s ears, some form of archaic tribal tongue she suspected no one else present could decipher. Tikrut raised the gourd above his head as he spoke, shaking it back and forth so Lizanne could hear the liquid contents sloshing about.

“He invokes the Blessing of the gods,” the clan leader said as Tikrut chanted on. “The divine brew is potent, formed of drake blood fermented over the span of centuries and imbued with the gods’ essence.”

“Really?” Lizanne enquired, refreshing her reserves of Black with the Spider before reaching out to snatch the gourd from the old shaman’s hands. She plucked it out of the air and turned it over in her hands, Tikrut sputtering all the while, this time in Selvurin. “Blaspheming witch! Prepare to burn! The gods will not tolerate so vile an insult . . .”

He trailed off as Lizanne found a stoppered opening on the underside of the gourd. She pried it open and dipped a finger inside. “This is water,” she said, after tasting the contents. “Fresh too. I expect he refills it quite regularly.” She replaced the stopper and tossed the gourd back to Tikrut. He failed to catch it and the receptacle duly tumbled to the ground, much to the gasping shock of all present, apart from the young clan leader.

“You useless old bastard,” he told Tikrut as the shaman scrambled from his saddle, fumbling desperately for the holy gourd. Upon grasping it the shaman immediately began his chant once more, sinking to his knees and raising the gourd to the heavens in the hope, Lizanne presumed, the gods might see fit to smite her with a thunderbolt or two.

“Been hearing about his remarkable powers my entire life,” the clan leader said, switching to Eutherian as he turned to Lizanne. “But never seen him do a damned thing, except eat and drink all the offerings my people piled outside his tent. Nice to have one’s suspicions confirmed, even if it is by an enemy. Name’s Ahnkrit, by the way. Tenth of his name, slayer of a hundred men and leader by the gods’ will of the Red Eagle Clan.” He inclined his head, turning his horse about and trotting back towards camp. “Nice to meet you, miss. Come and have a spot of lunch, why don’t you?”

“It’s all a matter of honour, I’m afraid,” Ahnkrit told her, sipping wine as he reclined on a cushion of wolf pelts. “I assured Sefka I’d have my lot visit their barbaric worst on your rebellious swine, you see? It’s just not done to break a promise to an old friend.”

“Old friend?” Lizanne enquired. She had been provided with a generous plate of undercooked venison and a large goblet of wine, neither of which she had touched. Despite the clan leader’s sudden affability, she couldn’t discount the possibility of poison.

“Oh yes,” Ahnkrit replied. “You could say we went to school together. I was but a toddler when dear old papa sent me off to the Imperial Court. Officially as a guest but in actuality a hostage to his continued loyalty to the crown. Sefka was one of the few high-born brats who bothered to talk to me. Fifteen years of courtly etiquette and noble education did wonders for my manners, as you can see. However, it did make for a slightly troublesome home-coming. Papa had been busy siring bastards in my absence, none of whom relished the prospect of surrendering the first saddle to a youth who spoke Eutherian better than he did Selvurin.” Ahnkrit’s face clouded a little in sorrowful nostalgia. “It’s a hard thing to kill one’s own brother, I must say. But, like anything else, it got easier with practice.”

Lizanne’s gaze went to the shelter’s entrance where the light had begun to dim. “I would have thought survival would trump honour,” she said. “And as for promises, I can promise that you and most of your people will be dead come morning if you don’t break camp and leave now.”

“A less enlightened man might take that for a threat.” Ahnkrit sat up, leaning forward to regard her with intent scrutiny. “But that’s not it, is it, my dear Miss Blood? Is it all the little kiddies? Worried what may become of them, are we?”

“I’ve seen a great deal of death this past year,” she replied. “Dead children included. And I believe I’ve seen enough.”

“My people do everything as one, including going to war. Nor do we spare our young the horrors of the world, for they will have to face them soon enough. Custom, you see. Like silly old Tikrut and his magic gourd. I am a prisoner of custom.” He proffered his forearm, pointing to a fresh cut behind the wrist. “I blessed my sabre with my own blood and swore I would lead this clan to riches in the southlands.”

“Riches?” Lizanne asked. “Rather than victory?”

“What care we for your revolt? Win it or lose it, we’ll make treaty with whoever comes out on top. Pragmatism is also a custom in this clan. But I cannot simply pick up sticks and march off, not just because some foreign witch rides into my own camp and makes a fool of my shaman, a nice gift though it was.”

Lizanne concealed a sigh of frustration, her brow furrowing in consideration until a singular notion popped into her head. Riches trumps victory. “There’s a place,” she said. “A burning city to the south. Scorazin. You’ve heard of it?”

“The Emperor’s prison city, recently brought low.” Ahnkrit shrugged. “What of it?”

“There is a great deal of silver waiting to be dug out of it. Rich seams as yet undisclosed to any outside authority.”

The clansman’s lip curled in disdain. “My people are not miners, miss.”

“You don’t have to dig it out, just be in possession of the city when the war ends. Whatever regime holds power will be in dire need of funds and willing to negotiate, I’m sure. I also know the location of a hidden cache of silver ore, if your people require a more immediate incentive.”

“Scorazin is still burning.”

“Only the sulphur mines. Or is the Red Eagle Clan afraid of a little smoke?”

Ahnkrit’s face took on a still, expressionless aspect, his dark eyes half-lidded. She couldn’t tell if he was pondering her proposal or suffering her insult. “This People’s Freedom Army,” he said finally. “Would I be wrong in thinking that your attitude towards them is uncoloured by any radical notions?”

“You would not,” she replied. “But you would be wrong in thinking I might be enjoined to betray them.”

“I do not require your betrayal, miss, only your honesty. Give me your unbiased and unprejudiced opinion, if you would. Do you believe they will actually win?”

Lizanne’s mind traced through everything she had seen since arriving in Corvus, all the people she had met, from Hyran to the Electress. She recalled the day Scorazin fell, and what had since been dubbed the Battle of the Road when a mob of criminals and barely trained civilians had overrun the best troops in the empire. Caranis died and the great pantomime died with him, she thought. Now all that’s left is for the audience to give their verdict on the performance, and it is far from favourable.

“Yes,” she said. “I do believe they will.”

“In that case”—Ahnkrit leaned closer, smiling the brisk smile of a born trader about to strike a fine bargain—“I’ll agree to your terms. I’ll take my people off to find this silver, on the understanding that, witch or not, no corner of this earth will hide you should your words prove false. I’ll hold the smoking ruins of Scorazin until adequate compensation is paid to my clan, thereby leaving the road clear for your rebels to march on Corvus. But”—his smile became cold, his previously affable tones transforming into something entirely serious—“I require you to perform for me an additional service. And it is not a matter for negotiation.”

CHAPTER 43

Sirus

He could feel the Red’s hatred, it seemed to emanate from beneath its crimson scales like a constantly stoked fire. You want nothing more than to eat me, Sirus observed, allowing the thought to slip free of his shields. Do you?

He wasn’t entirely sure of the degree to which the lesser drakes could discern the thoughts of the White’s enslaved minions. Communication between drake and Spoiled was limited to the exchange of images, shorn of nuance or deeper understanding. He had made some tentative attempts to connect with the animals’ minds, finding the experience akin to hearing a distant echo spoken in an alien tongue. But, although a true joining of minds appeared to be impossible, the beast’s emotions were easily read. This ability Katarias at least appeared fully capable of mirroring. A shudder of revulsion ran through the Red’s huge form from end to end and it opened its jaws to cough out a thick cloud of foul-smelling, yellow smoke. The rushing air-current swiftly conveyed the noxious miasma directly into Sirus’s face, leaving him choking for several seconds as he clung to the spines on the beast’s neck.

When I free this army your death will be my delight, he thought, careful to cloud the vow in a thick covering of fear. Katarias gave another shudder, as if sensing the emotion behind the thought, a loud rumble issuing from its throat. Sirus couldn’t escape the notion that if a drake were capable of laughter, he may have just heard it.

Katarias had carried him about fifteen miles north of the Isles, describing a zigzag course across the sky until their quarry appeared beneath. Following close behind was a pack of ten more Reds, all large specimens capable of carrying heavy loads. In addition to the lone tribal Spoiled on their backs they all clutched another, bulkier cargo in each of their talons. Sirus could see the ship now, its wake a bright spear-point in the dark expanse of the ocean. Although he knew this to be a blood-burning frigate the ship moved under steam power at less than a third of its top speed.

After conceiving his plan and communicating it to the White, the Reds had kept a constant watch on the northern coast-lines of those islands held by the Spoiled army. At Sirus’s instruction numerous camp-fires were lit along the coast, giving the impression of greater numbers and hopefully providing a tempting target for the Maritime Protectorate’s raiders. The frigate below had been the first to take the bait, steaming in close to shore at sunset to pound one of their decoy camps with a brief but intense barrage. The ship had then turned about and steamed due north, using her blood-burner for close on an hour as her captain no doubt assumed such speed would deliver her from any pursuing Blues.

Spying the ship, Katarias drew in his wings and descended at a dizzying velocity. The air-stream became so intense Sirus found himself clutching ever tighter to the Red’s neck spines. At little under thirty feet from the waves Katarias flared his wings and they levelled out, gliding towards the frigate’s stern at a shallow angle. The Red reared up as they came within a few feet of the stern, dipping his head so Sirus could jump clear. He performed a slow somersault as he descended towards the frigate’s deck, pulling the weapons from his belt, a broad-bladed knife in one hand and an Islander’s war club in the other. He also had a pistol holstered under his shoulder but, if all went as planned, he wouldn’t need it. There were two sailors stationed on the stern, both standing in open-mouthed shock at the sight of a Spoiled landing on the deck of their ship barely a few feet away.

Sirus moved in a blur, making full use of the capabilities of his remade body. The war-club shattered the skull of the sailor on the right and the knife opened the throat of his companion, the warning he had begun to shout choking into a wet gargle as he slid to the boards. Sirus whirled in time to see Katarias open his claws to deposit his additional cargo on the frigate’s upper works before lashing out with his tail to skewer the look-out in the crow’s nest. With that, the huge Red angled his wings and glided off into the gloom.

Sirus crouched and waited, eyes fixed on the ship’s bridge. The screams were not long in coming, short, piercing shrieks as blasts of flame lit the windows. He looked up at the sound of rushing air, seeing Forest Spear leap from the back of a Red to land at Sirus’s side. The Red swept on, releasing the Greens in its clutches over the prow of the ship. More Reds followed in quick succession, tribal Spoiled landing on the stern and Greens on the works and the fore-deck.

Sirus could sense the tribals’ lust for combat, the legacy of a life lived as warriors. Nevertheless, he held them in check until the screams emanating from the rest of the ship rose to a crescendo of panic and fear, punctuated by the occasional gun-shot.

Take the bridge, he told Forest Spear and three others, who immediately sprinted off. He led the remainder towards the hatch he knew led to the engine room. Amongst the army were several former Protectorate sailors possessing valuable knowledge. Down the ladder, follow the corridor to midships, take the ladder on the right to the lower deck. They encountered little resistance, save for a clumsy lunge with a fire-axe from a teenage ensign who scarcely seemed strong enough to lift it. Sirus side-stepped the axe and tapped the war-club against the lad’s temple, knocking him unconscious. The White would be expecting new recruits from this endeavour.

He found the engine room in chaos. One stoker lay on his back shrieking as a Green savaged his legs. The Chief Engineer and a clutch of others were backed up against the far bulkhead, trying to fend off another Green with their coal-shovels. We need the engineer, Sirus told the tribals as they charged into the fray. Spare the others if you can.

It was over in seconds, the engineer clubbed down and bound along with two of his men. The remaining three proved overly aggressive and were left to the attentions of the Greens.

The captain died, Forest Spear’s thought came from the bridge. We have the First Officer.

Sirus went to the bulky mass of the ship’s auxiliary power plant, shutting it down with a few deft shoves to the requisite levers. There were several engineers in the army in addition to sailors. Secure all captives on the fore-deck, he instructed Forest Spear. Then search the ship for survivors. No more killing.

Sirus turned to the Chief Engineer, who stared up at him with a mixture of revulsion and defiance. The man’s craggy, oil-streaked features spasmed in impotent rage at the diminishing screams of his men as the Greens feasted on the fruits of victory.

“What is the name of this ship?” Sirus asked the engineer as the last of the screams faded.

The man blinked in surprise at the sound of a Spoiled speaking his own language, then clenched his jaws tight and shook his head in refusal. One of the tribals stepped closer and dragged the engineer’s head back by the hair, pressing a knife to his throat. Still the man refused to speak, instead casting a thick glob of spit in Sirus’s direction, his steady gaze conveying a clear invitation for Sirus to do his worst.

“The Ultimate Sanction!” one of the stokers rasped out, voice pitched high in terror. “She’s called the Ultimate Sanction!”

“No, that won’t do.” Sirus paused for a moment’s reflection. “She is hereby renamed the Harbinger.”

They sailed back to the Isles where the surviving crew were duly converted. The ship’s Blood-blessed had managed to emerge unscathed from the battle but, as was becoming gruesomely routine whenever they discovered one of his kind, was not so fortunate when he met the White. Once again the great beast undertook a close inspection of the captive, a corpulent fellow who displayed an admirable resolve in the face of what he must have known to be imminent death.

“When our full fleet sails,” he growled at the White as it leaned closer, nostrils flaring, “your pestilent horde will be rent to nothing.”

The White betrayed no obvious reaction to the words, continuing its inspection for several seconds before issuing the customary huff of annoyance. Despite his courage, even this resolute fellow couldn’t help but scream upon being tossed to the ever-hungry clutch of juvenile Whites.

Sirus seized another three ships in less than a week. With the renamed Harbinger under their control it proved a relatively simple matter to approach a Protectorate warship once its location had been revealed by patrolling Reds or Blues. Once the vessel hove into view signal flags requesting urgent assistance were raised and the ship’s speed reduced to a crawl. Only one paddle was left turning and the engine room ordered to make smoke to convey the impression of a damaged vessel. The smoke had the additional advantage of concealing the features of the Harbinger’s crew until her well-intentioned comrade had drawn alongside, by which time their fate was sealed.

Grapples were hurled to lash the vessels together and gang-planks lowered to bridge the gap whereupon two hundred Spoiled emerged from hiding to rush across and seize the prize. The fighting was usually fierce but short-lived, and the complement of sailors to man the White’s growing fleet grew with every capture. Sirus ensured that no more Blood-blessed were found alive. He concealed his purpose by personally hunting down the Blood-blessed on each vessel and masking the swift death he gave them with a burst of fear. As yet, the White didn’t appear to have detected his merciful subterfuge though the members of Sirus’s ad hoc staff proved more perceptive.

We can’t fire the blood-burners without Blood-blessed, Veilmist, the mathematical girl-genius pointed out. Her thoughts tended to lack all but the most subtle emotion, possessing a singularity of focus that Sirus suspected had been there long before her conversion. He had convened a council of war in the Harbinger’s ward-room. Although remade into something other than human, they were still compelled by the strictures of human custom, including a ritual obeisance to hierarchy.

“The auxiliary engines will suffice,” Sirus replied, speaking aloud in Eutherian as had become his habit at these gatherings. “Your calculations please. And talk, don’t think.”

Veilmist replied in Varsal, her lilting Island accent counterpointed by the precision with which she enunciated each word. “In the event of a direct assault and given the strength of the Protectorate garrison in Feros we can expect a casualty rate of forty to forty-five percent. Assuming the attack is successful, however, and factoring in the likely death toll amongst the civilian population, the overall strength of the Army will at least double.”

“And assuming we can fight our way past the naval cordon,” Morradin said. “Four ships won’t be enough.” The marshal’s simmering rage at his loss of status hadn’t abated. But, like all of them, the White’s need for victory left no room for dissent. Also, Sirus could sense the man’s innate inability to resist a military challenge.

“We won’t be fighting our way in,” Sirus said. “At least not at first. And, the casualty estimate is too high to justify a massed assault on the harbour.”

He had a map of the Tyrell Islands spread out on the ward-room table. It was another sop to ritual since they all shared the same visual memory. “Feros sits at the end of an isthmus on the southern coast of Crowsloft Island,” he said, pointing to the city’s location. “And no inland fortifications to guard against an overland assault.”

“Because they’ve never had to worry about it,” Morradin replied. “There aren’t any viable landing sites on the isthmus. But there is this.” He jabbed a stubby finger at a small inlet to the west of Feros. “The Corvantine Imperial General Staff had a plan for an invasion of the Tyrell Islands, to be undertaken following the conquest of Ironship’s Arradsian Holdings. We identified this bay as the optimum landing point. The beach is usually too broad for a successful attack, being overlooked by cliffs all around, but it’s a different matter during a three-moon tide. What was a muddy mile-long tract enclosed by impassable cliffs becomes a short beach fringed by easily climbed slopes.”

“The next three-moon tide is in eighteen days,” Veilmist said.

“An achievable time-scale,” Sirus said, tapping a finger to Morradin’s proposed landing site. “We land the main force here and Feros is no more than a six-mile march away. Night will provide additional cover as well as confusing the defenders, since they don’t enjoy our advantages in the dark.”

“The General Staff also intended a simultaneous attack on the harbour,” Morradin said. “Considered vital to disrupt the enemy defences and divide their forces.” He shot a brief, malicious glance at Forest Spear. “Send the savages. They’re nothing if not expendable.”

Sirus was obliged to still Forest Spear’s upsurge of anger with an implacable pulse of command, freezing the tribal in place as his hand flew to the knife on his belt. Only this man could breed disunity in an army of joined minds, Sirus thought, turning a hard gaze on Morradin.

“Kill him,” Avris, the former artillery sergeant said. The memory of his flogging was a permanent dark stain on the man’s memories and this was not the first time he had made this suggestion.

“He weakens us, darling,” Katrya said, moving to Sirus’s side and smiling sweetly in Morradin’s direction. “Why do you keep him?”

“Because he remains useful,” Sirus replied simply, sending out another thought pulse that forbade further discussion on the subject. He returned his attention to the map, mind churning over the plan, drawing pertinent detail from the wealth of knowledge acquired over recent months. He could see plenty of risks, for war was always risky, but no obvious flaws. It was tempting to send Morradin to command the attack on the port itself, squeeze some more use from him whilst hopefully orchestrating his death in the process. But there was another factor to consider, one he was careful to conceal.

“Marshal Morradin will command the landing force,” he said. “I will lead the assault on Feros.”

Katrya’s anger was fierce, making her thrash and scratch at him as they coiled together in the captain’s cabin on the Harbinger. Had he still possessed a fully human form her attentions might well have been fatal; as it was they were merely painful, if irresistible.

“Do you hate me?” she asked as her passion finally began to subside, her tongue licking along the cut she had left on his scaled brow.

“Of course not,” he told her, sharing a memory of their time together in the Morsvale sewers. For all the terror of those days he still preferred them to this enslavement.

So you want it to end? she persisted, returning to thought-speech. You think death will bring freedom?

The White wants its victory. The attack on the harbour has a greater chance of success if I lead it. It was a carefully constructed lie, possessing enough truth for plausibility but shot through with sufficient uncertainty to conceal the deception. At least, he had hoped so. Katrya, however, was not so easily fooled.

It’s her! Her thoughts lashed at him and her steel-hard nails added another cut to his face as she tore herself free of the bed. Isn’t it? You think you’ll find her there!

He saw no point in denial. Simply sitting up to regard her in silence as the blood coursed down his face.

“She’s dead!” Katrya hissed at him, elongated teeth gleaming in the darkness. “The little bitch is dead!”

No she is not. He let the thought bubble to the surface of his mind. His investigations had been cautious, surreptitious intrusions into the minds of those captured at Carvenport. Those taken alive when the city finally fell amounted to barely a dozen people, all but four considered too old or infirm to be worthy of conversion. But there was one, a former stevedore whose pistol had misfired when he attempted to kill himself after a valiant stand at the docks. The man possessed a vivid recollection of the day Miss Blood’s rag-tag fleet had sailed from the harbour to fight their way through the blockade of Blues. She strode onto the deck of a warship to greet the captain and, at her side, a disconcertingly pretty young woman of diminutive stature. Her bearing was different, less stiff and formal than he remembered, her face lacking the scowl of one in constant search of something worthy of criticism. But it was undoubtedly her, Tekela, still alive and about to sail to safety in Feros.

“So she’s alive,” Katrya said, speaking aloud in clipped, angry Varsal. “Think she’s waiting for you? Think she’s dreaming of the day you come knocking at her door? If you were beneath her notice before, what do you imagine she’ll think of you now?”

“A monster,” he said and shrugged. “And she would be right. Soon this will be a world of monsters. I would spare her that, if I could.”

Katrya’s rage subsided at that, the bestial grin fading and her claws becoming hands once more. You intend to kill her, she thought, her mind roving through his thoughts as he lowered his barriers. Like you killed those Blood-blessed.

Even a monster can be merciful.

She came to him, leaning down to kiss his wounds before taking hold of his hand and pressing it to her belly. Soon there will be three of us. When you look upon our child will you see nothing more than a monster?

He wanted her to be lying, but he could feel it in her thoughts and her body. A new life grew inside her. A life they had made.

A life made in love, she said. Slaves we may be. Monsters we may be. But if we can be merciful, can we not love too?

CHAPTER 44

Clay

“That’s enough, Seer-dammit!” Clay grabbed the barrel of Sigoral’s carbine and forced it up. Sigoral tried to tug the weapon free but the Green lingering in Clay’s veins wouldn’t allow it. The marine’s rage at Kriz had come close to overturning his reason and he spent several seconds swearing at her in Varsal, his trigger-finger twitching continually until Clay decided to forestall any unwise actions. They stared at each other, Sigoral refocusing his rage on Clay, removing a hand from the carbine’s stock to reach for the pistol at his belt.

“Don’t!” Loriabeth said, moving closer to clamp a hand on the marine’s arm. “Won’t do no good,” she added in a softer tone, holding on until he turned to her, the rage fading from his gaze.

“I told you we couldn’t trust her,” he said, voice coloured by weary resignation. Clay released his grip on the carbine and Sigoral pulled free of Loriabeth before turning away.

“So,” Clay said, moving to Kriz’s side and nodding at the egg. “He’s in there, right? Your father.”

She nodded and sagged, Clay reaching out to catch her before she fell. “How do we open it?” he asked, holding her upright.

She drew the small needle gun from her belt and looked up to meet his gaze with a weak smile. “We . . . trance.”

“There’s not much left,” Clay said, eyeing the vial resting in the needle gun’s chamber. He snapped it closed and turned to Sigoral and Loriabeth. “Don’t know how long we’ll be under. Or what I’ll find,” he added, glancing at the egg.

“Your point, cuz?” Loriabeth enquired.

Clay turned to Sigoral, gave a bland smile which drew a quizzical frown from the marine, a frown that turned to alarm as Clay quick-drew his pistol and levelled it at the Corvantine’s head. “Point is, I ain’t keen on leaving my cousin in such uncertain company,” he said, gaze locked on Sigoral’s. “I’ll thank you to remove your gloves, Lieutenant.”

Sigoral stood stock still for several seconds, then his face betrayed a flicker of grim amusement as he slowly pulled off his gloves. “Let’s see it,” Clay ordered and the Corvantine extended his hands, turning them over. It was hard to spot in the gloom but Clay found it, a small pale mark on the palm of the marine’s left hand.

“Blood-blessed,” Loriabeth breathed, gaze narrowing as she stepped to the side, raising her rifle.

“How did you know?” Sigoral enquired.

“General demeanour,” Clay said, unwilling to elaborate in front of Loriabeth. “And you never took off your gloves. You’re Blood Cadre, right?”

“Certainly not,” Sigoral responded with a disdainful sniff. “I am an officer in the Marine Division of the Corvantine Imperial Navy. I also happen to be the appointed Blood-blessed to the INS Superior.”

“So the ship’s Blood-blessed didn’t really die off Carvenport. That’s how you got her all the way to Lossermark. Guess you ran out of product during the voyage, huh?”

“All but a few drops of Blue. I intended to report your arrival in Lossermark to the Imperial Fleet Command the very night Captain Hilemore seized the Superior. For obvious reasons I chose to be somewhat economical with the facts when telling him my story. Otherwise he might not have been so willing to allow me to join this very interesting expedition. My men knew their duty and kept quiet as to my true nature.”

“Have you tranced since? Told your bosses what we’re up to?”

“I attempted to, when we reached the ice. There was no one to receive my communication, something so unheard of it forces me to conclude the empire may have suffered some form of calamity.”

“Horse shit,” Loriabeth said. “He’s lying. For all we know he’s got orders to kill us and steal whatever we find here.”

“My cousin makes a good point,” Clay told Sigoral. “Seems the smartest thing would be to kill you now.”

“Yes it would.” Sigoral slowly let his hands fall to his side. He regarded each of them in turn, expression free of any fear, and also any defiance. “A servant of the empire must hold to his duty. But, for what it may be worth, I bear you no ill will and am proud to have made this most enlightening journey in such company.”

“Journey ain’t over yet,” Clay said. “You got any product on your person?”

“A small amount of Green, harvested in the forest when Miss Torcreek’s attention was elsewhere.”

“Best wait on using it till you really have to.” Clay holstered his revolver and turned back to Kriz. “My own supply is pretty low.”

“Cuz?” Loriabeth said, gaping at him.

“Got a better chance of getting out of here with two Blood-blessed in our party,” Clay told her. “And if killing us was his object, he’d have done it long since.”

He went to crouch at Kriz’s side, pressing the needle gun’s muzzle to her forearm. “Ready?” he asked.

Kriz had recovered a great deal thanks to the crystal’s healing light but he could see the lingering pain in her red-tinged eyes. Nevertheless she nodded, forcing a smile. “Ready.”

Clay squeezed the trigger, pushing half the Blue into her veins, then pressed the gun to his own forearm, pausing at Loriabeth’s softly spoken question, “What if you don’t come back?”

He looked up at her, smiled and nodded at Sigoral. “Try not to hate him too much. It’ll be awful lonely for you down here otherwise.”

She replied with a scowl that slowly softened into a tense smile. “You don’t come back I’m gonna spend what time I have left killing all the drakes I can find. He can do what he likes.”

“Uncle Braddon . . .” Clay began, then faltered, struggling for the words. “Reckon he’d be right proud, seeing you now. First Gunhand indeed.”

Her smile broadened a fraction and there was a catch in her voice as she replied, “Reckon he’d be proud of both of us, Clay.”

He nodded, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

They looked out upon mountains bathed in the light of the three moons. At first Clay thought they were in the Coppersoles, but soon saw differences in the landscape. These mountains were not so tall, their dark flanks largely free of snow or frost. This was a place he had never seen.

“I don’t have your skills,” Kriz said. She stood near by, close to the edge of the promontory on which they stood, spreading her arms to encompass the view. “Still a little fuzzy around the edges.”

Clay scanned the mountains once more, seeing a subtle shift to the peaks and valleys, as if it swayed in some mighty wind, though the air was completely still. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “Should’ve seen my first mindscape.” He raised his gaze to the sky, eyes taking in the sight of the moons. Nelphia and Morphia were slightly overlapped with Serphia drifting off to the right. “Got the moons right, anyways,” he said.

“I remember them very well. This”—she nodded at the mountains—“this I never saw. Nor has anyone else for twelve thousand years.”

Clay frowned at her, watching a grim anticipation settle over her face as she also raised her gaze to the heavens. “If you never saw it, how’d you make it?” he asked.

“There are . . . were paintings, sketches. This is my best guess. I needed something suitably impressive to help you understand.”

“Understand what?”

She gave a small jerk of her head, Clay seeing a small glimmer of light swelling in her eyes. He followed her gaze to find a new light in the sky, a bright orange ball trailing fire across the faces of the moons. “My father called it the Catalyst Event,” Kriz said as the fiery ball grew ever larger. “One moment that forever altered the destiny of this planet.”

The fire-ball made a silent descent towards the mountains, streaking down to slam into the peaks a few miles away. The entire range shimmered as a huge blast wave spread out from the impact, ancient stone transformed to powder in the blink of an eye as the sky turned black with displaced dust. For a second the mindscape disappeared, swallowed by the dark, and when it returned Clay found himself standing in a crimson desert.

Something Skaggerhill once said came back to him as he gazed about at the rust-coloured dunes stretching away on either side: Educated fella I knew in Carvenport said it must’ve been a mountain range once . . . thousands a years ago some great catastrophe turned it into a desert.

“You know this place?” Kriz asked, stirring pink dust as she came to his side.

“Been here once,” he replied. “We call it the Red Sands.”

“My people called it the Iron Wastes, though those of a more spiritual outlook termed it the Cradle of Divine Rebirth. All that remains of a range of peaks that stretched across the centre of this continent, brought low by something beyond human understanding, at least at the time.”

She pointed at something on the crest of a near by dune, a tall figure swaddled in thick clothing, face covered against the dust. The figure strode across the sand towards them, giving no indication of registering their presence. It stopped a few feet away, crouching low to scrape at the iron flakes with a rag-covered hand. The covering on the figure’s face came loose as he crouched lower to peer at what he had uncovered. Clay half expected to find himself looking upon a Spoiled, but instead saw the face of a man. Dark-skinned and weathered with long-healed scars marring his skin, but undoubtedly a man.

“We believe there were at least half a million people living on this continent at the time of the Event,” Kriz said as they watched the scarred man dig in the sands. “Within the space of a century the population had fallen to barely ten thousand. The planet suffered a hundred-year-long winter, so much debris had been cast into the atmosphere it obscured the sun. Whole species were wiped out, the larger animals went first, followed by the predators that preyed upon them. It’s no exaggeration to say that all life on this continent stood on the brink of complete extinction. The Event came within a whisker of destroying us, so ironic then that it also brought the key to our prosperity.”

Clay watched the scarred man scrape away another handful of flakes to reveal the glassy, multi-faceted surface of a crystal. “How these people came to know enough to make use of them is lost,” Kriz said, as the crouched figure pressed his hand to the crystal. “We do know they thought them to be gifts from the gods, a few ancient texts call them the Divine Seeds. And so, the people of this continent began to recover, their entire culture forever transformed. But”—she turned away from the crouching man, nodding at something scrabbling in the dust a short way off—“they were not the only thing to change.”

It was small, smaller even than the Green that had bitten him, no more than a foot long from nose to tail. Its skin was mostly hidden by a thick pall of crimson dust, but as the beast shifted Clay saw the light catch on gleaming black scales. The drake gave a small, almost kittenish squawk then convulsed, jumping in alarm as a small but intense gout of flame erupted from its mouth.

“This is just supposition,” Kriz said as the tiny Black coughed out some more flames, its wings flaring in excitement. “We never really discovered how exactly it happened, but somehow a small, reptilian species survived the Event and it . . . changed them. The ability to spit venom became the ability to breathe fire and they grew in size with each generation. Some theorised that crystals disintegrated during the Event and the fragments fused with the drakes. The power they held seeped into their being.”

“And their blood,” Clay said, squinting at the drake in wonder. “Guess it didn’t take long before folks found out what it could do.”

“Actually, no.” Kriz turned away from the drake, closing her eyes in concentration. “That took a very long time.”

The Red Sands disappeared, fragmenting into a million shards that in turn shattered into sparkling motes of dust. They swirled about him like fire-flies, the glow they cast slowly increasing as they came together to form a new scene. When it was done he thought at first she had taken him to another mountain range, so tall were the structures that slid by below.

“We’re flying,” he realised, looking around to find himself in an oval-shaped cabin of some kind. Wide circular windows ran along the walls, affording a clear view of the mountains below. Not mountains, he thought, looking again as the summit of the structure passed beneath. It rose to well over a hundred feet in height, a greatly enlarged version of the buildings he had seen in the city beneath the mountain. It was connected by branching walkways to similar buildings on either side and they in turn connected to others so that the city resembled a jungle fashioned from stone. He could see people on the walkways, a great many people.

“Much can happen in two thousand years,” Kriz said, appearing at his side. From the smile on her lips it was clear she was enjoying his amazement.

“What is this?” he said, gesturing at the oval-shaped room. “A cable-car?”

“No.” She frowned, clearly struggling with an explanation, then shrugged. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The sound of laughter drew their gaze to the front of the room where a tall man and a little girl stood watching the city pass by below. They were both dressed in clothing that resembled the garb Kriz had found in the armoury, the white fabric contrasting with the darkness of their skin. Clay knew instantly they were father and daughter. It was there in the tall man’s gaze, the pride in his eyes and the indulgent smile on his lips as the girl pressed both hands to the glass.

“So many people, Father,” she said. “I didn’t know there were so many in all the world.”

The tall man hesitated before playing an affectionate hand through the girl’s short-cropped hair. When he spoke Clay heard Kriz murmur the words in unison, “So many people, Krizelle. And none so special as you.”

The room shifted then, Clay’s stomach lurching a little as whatever carried them aloft began to descend. It was less alarming than riding on Lutharon’s back but still disconcerting. He saw buildings and walkways slide past the windows, as the craft banked then levelled out. The little girl squealed and jumped in excitement at the sight of another building looming ahead, the tallest one yet.

The tall man placed a calming hand on the girl’s small shoulder, crouching to meet her gaze, his expression intent. “Do you remember what I told you, Krizelle?” he asked her, provoking a roll of her eyes.

“Don’t speak unless directly questioned,” she said, her tone rich in the bored annoyance of a child repeating a frequent lesson. “Do not lie, do not exaggerate, demonstrate only as instructed. There will be ignorant and angry people, ignore them.”

“Very good.” The tall man cupped her cheek and Clay saw how he strove to conceal his trepidation behind a confident grin. “This will all be over soon. Then we’ll get to go home.”

The little girl gave an aggrieved pout. “But I want to see the city.”

“You will.” The tall man pulled her into a brief embrace then took her hand, rising to regard the tall building which now filled the window. “But only for a little while.”

For a time it seemed they were about to collide with the building, but the speed of their approach soon slowed. The craft carrying them gently descended towards a circular platform extending from the tall building’s sloping flank. A slight bump indicated they had come to rest.

“Come along now,” the tall man said, clasping his daughter’s hand tighter as unseen hands levered open a hatch in the floor. A ladder was hoisted into place and the two of them duly climbed out, Kriz and Clay following close behind.

Once clear of the ladder Clay turned around and backed away, looking up to find a large bulbous object obscuring his view of the sky. He was obliged to retreat a good distance before gaining a full view of the craft. A two-deck gondola was fixed by means of a dense mesh of ropes below a large ovacular balloon. Protruding from either side of the gondola were two mechanicals, the rear of which was fitted with what appeared to be three-bladed fans. Clay immediately recalled Lizanne’s trance memory of the propelling mechanism she witnessed in Morsvale harbour. That had been used to push a ship through the ocean so it seemed reasonable to assume these would push this thing through the air.

“So your people have no aerostats,” Kriz observed, reading his expression.

“Heard of balloons being used to carry folk aloft,” he replied. “Seen pictures in books and such. Nothing like this though.”

“It was a recent innovation, truth be told,” she said, glancing back at the craft before turning her gaze towards the little girl and her father. “One of many, in fact.”

The pair were being greeted by a small delegation, all older people wearing more elaborate garb than Clay had seen before. There was a robe-like formality to the clothing that told him these were people of some importance, a fact confirmed by the sudden deference evident in the posture of the girl’s father.

“Were they your Board?” Clay asked Kriz, drawing a bemused frown. “The folk in charge,” he elaborated. “Y’know, like a government.”

“In charge?” she mused, starting forward as the delegation concluded their greeting and led the little girl and her father into the building. “Sadly, yes they were very much in charge.”

They entered the building through a tall pointed arch, proceeding along a wide corridor to a huge tiered chamber. It had a flat circular centre which gave way to a series of wide terraces which ascended to form a great bowl. There were a great many people sitting or standing on the terraces, with more crowding the flat space in the centre. The air was filled with a loud growl of energised conversation, all of which came to an abrupt end when Krizelle and her father followed the delegation into the chamber.

Kriz abruptly froze the memory, Clay turning to find her standing with her arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes closed. “Something wrong?” he asked.

For a second she said nothing, then murmured, “Don’t you think it’s a curse sometimes? This . . . thing we can do. Every memory lingering in your head, ready to be played out in all its detail. Aren’t there things you’d rather forget?”

“Sure. Then there are memories I never want to lose. That’s just what happens when you live a life.”

Clay resisted the urge to encourage her to restart the memory. Although he worried over how much Blue they had left, he also sensed she needed a moment to steel herself for whatever she was about to show him. Biting down on his impatience, he scanned the chamber, eyes roving over all the statue-like figures and finding a peculiar absence. No guards, he realised. These people were all dressed much the same as the greeting party, though the colours varied and some were much more elaborate. What struck him as most odd, however, was that no two people were dressed alike.

“No uniforms,” he murmured. “No guards. No need for a Protectorate here, I guess.”

“Protectorate?” Kriz enquired, the trance communicating her puzzlement at the concept.

“Army, police, soldiers. Folk employed to keep the peace, defend this place.”

“Ah.” She nodded in understanding. “We’d fought our last war decades before then. Not long before this city was first constructed. The world beyond this continent might still be steeped in tribalism and savagery, but here peace is the norm. However . . .” Her face darkened as she scanned the crowd and her gaze came to rest on one figure in particular, a thin woman of middling years dressed in the plainest robe of any present. “Unfortunately, we had yet to shrug off the lingering taint of superstition.”

Clay noted how the thin woman’s frozen features were set in an odd expression, somewhere between a disdain and hunger as she stared at the little girl clutching her father’s hand and staring at the surrounding assembly with fearful eyes.

Kriz unfroze the memory, the thin woman’s strident voice cutting through the silence a half-second later. “So,” she said, shifting her narrowed eyes from the girl to her father, “Philos Zembi finally deigns to answer our summons.”

“I received a request, not a summons,” Krizelle’s father replied in a carefully mild tone. “And I came as soon as I was able.”

“Ah yes,” the woman replied, her own tone much less civil, “you are so busy crafting fresh horrors in that mountain fortress of yours.”

“The Philos Enclave is not a fortress, nor is it mine,” Zembi replied, Clay seeing how he struggled to keep any animosity from his voice and bearing. “And I fail to see how the many gifts arising from the science practised there could be considered horrifying. Why, the very building we stand in could never have been constructed without the engineering genius of the great Philos Menzah, founder of the Enclave.”

“Brick and stone,” the woman replied, her voice rising as her gaze snapped back to Kriz, “not flesh and blood to be stolen and twisted into something that offends the very sight of the Divine Benefactors.”

“This child has not been twisted into anything,” Zembi said, a certain heat creeping into his voice. “Merely nurtured, educated and the gifts she possesses studied.”

“Gifts?” The thin woman grated out a humourless laugh. “You talk as if she merely has the ability to compose a tune or paint a pretty picture. In truth”—she raised a bony arm to point at Krizelle—“it is no exaggeration to say she could kill every soul in this assembly if the whim took her.”

“Devos Zarhi,” a new voice cut in, deep and pitched just below a boom. Clay turned to see a stocky, barrel-chested man emerge from the crowd. He wore a grey-blue robe with short sleeves that revealed thickly muscled arms. Noting his straight-backed bearing and the way the surrounding people made way for him, Clay suspected that he might be the leader here, or at least capable of commanding the most respect.

“This assembly,” the stocky man said, lowering his voice a little though it still easily filled the chamber, “is a venue for calm reflection and reasoned decision. Philos Zembi has done us the courtesy of responding to our request. And so”—the stocky man smiled at Krizelle—“has this young lady. I bid you Welcome, Krizelle. Your presence honours us greatly.”

Devos Zarhi gave a loud huff at this but remained quiet as the stocky man came forward, sinking to his haunches in front of Krizelle. “I am Veros Harzeh, Speaker of the Chamber,” he said. “I believe you have prepared a demonstration for us.”

Krizelle raised her small face to her father, Zembi squeezing her hand with an encouraging smile before reaching into a pocket in his robe to extract two objects. “I assume all present possess a basic familiarity with crystalline science,” he said, raising his voice and holding up one of the objects, a small crystal little larger than a pebble. “Even the smallest shard gifted to us by the Event is incredibly dense and contains more internal facets than can be counted with the naked eye. Although they have enabled us to craft great works, the true nature of the power they hold still eludes us. But now”—he turned a fond smile on Krizelle—“providence and science have combined to provide us with the key to unlocking their secrets.”

He held out the second object to her, a small glass bottle containing a viscous and instantly recognisable substance. “Black?” Clay said, glancing at Kriz and finding her attention entirely absorbed by the unfolding scene.

Krizelle hesitated before reaching out a small hand to take the bottle, removing the glass stopper and drinking the contents. Her face flushed as she swallowed, staggering a little as the product took hold. She straightened quickly and nodded at Zembi, features set in a frown of concentration.

Zembi reached out his hand, the pebble-sized crystal resting in his palm, and gave what Clay thought to be a pause of overly theatrical length before abruptly turning his hand over. The crystal fell several inches then stopped, freezing in mid air as Krizelle reached out to seize it with her Black.

From the vast gasp that filled the chamber, and the subsequent explosion of amazed chatter, Clay deduced this was the first time the vast majority of these people had ever witnessed such a thing.

A small ticking sound drew his gaze back to the crystal, seeing it shudder as Kriz modified her stream of Black. It gave another tick as a new facet appeared in its surface, quickly followed by two more. The crystal abruptly expanded to twice its previous size, new facets appearing so fast it was as if the stone blurred. The ticking sound grew into a continual almost melodic accompaniment to the crystal’s transformation. It grew to a fist-sized ball then flattened into a disc, the edges of which began to bow outwards then subdivide into thin overlapping shapes. An irregular cylinder grew from beneath the main body of the crystal, extending for several inches before resolving itself into what was clearly some kind of plant stem, complete with thorns. The ticking sound stopped as Krizelle reduced her Black to a thin stream, letting the newly made crystal rose spin slowly in the air.

Clay gaped at the spectacle. It was the most accomplished and detailed use of Black he had ever seen, outshining even the murderous precision of the dread Black Bildon, the famously skilled assassin from the Blinds.

“Well . . .” he breathed, turning back to Kriz. “That was surely something.”

She gave no reaction, instead watching the assembly’s reaction. Clay saw amazement, fear and delight on many a face and, in the singular case of Devos Zarhi, naked outrage. Her eyes seemed to glitter as she stared at Krizelle and hissed something through tightly clenched teeth. The words were lost amidst the continuing babble, but he doubted it was anything pleasant.

“You were the first,” Clay said to Kriz, laughing in realisation. “The first ever Blood-blessed.”

“No,” she whispered back, a tear swelling in her eye as she looked upon her younger self, “I was the first abomination.”

CHAPTER 45

Lizanne

“Scorazin wasn’t yours to give!” The Electress hunched in her saddle, broad features taking on a dark red hue as Dropsy shifted beneath her, perhaps sensing her mistress’s growing rage. “Now I have to bargain with a bunch of horse-shagging savages just to buy back a city that’s mine by right.”

“They’re gone,” Lizanne replied, meeting Atalina’s gaze and speaking in a placid, unrepentant tone. “The threat is removed, without bloodshed I might add.”

“She has a fair point,” Arberus said. He sat atop his own horse close by, a squad of mounted Brotherhood guards at his back. Lizanne had noticed he never went anywhere without an escort now, as did the Electress. “An intact horse clan with no unsettled blood-feud will be more inclined to join us after Corvus falls,” Arberus continued. “It’s time we started looking to the future.”

The Electress glared at Lizanne a moment longer then slowly straightened, calming Dropsy with a scratch to her ears. She turned to regard the Corvus Road stretching out ahead, a near-straight line of gravel fringed by untended fields, empty all the way to the horizon. “You’re lucky I still have need of you, dear,” she muttered before kicking Dropsy into motion. “Don’t forget our agreement,” she added, starting up the road with her body-guard of Furies following close behind.

Arberus guided his horse close to Lizanne’s and they sat in silence for a time, watching the People’s Freedom Army pass along the road. Varkash’s command were first in the marching order, moving in tidy companies now. The uniformity of dress adopted by the Wise Fools in Scorazin had been modified into something that resembled military order, though they still felt obliged to tear the sleeves from the captured uniforms they wore.

“Sentiment?” Arberus asked after a lengthy silence.

They had children. Lizanne left the thought unsaid. Honesty was another thing they no longer shared.

“What was it?” Arberus pressed, apparently undaunted by her silence. “The agreement you struck with her?”

“Just another murder.” Lizanne stroked her heels along the grey stallion’s flanks, spurring him to a walk. “What else?”

The country grew more populous the closer they drew to Corvus, outlying towns yielding ever more recruits. Local militias either melted away or summarily executed magistrates and senior constables before proclaiming loyalty to the revolution and falling into line. Organised opposition flared intermittently, Imperial officers marshalling hastily assembled loyalists in order to block the road. Some were little more than poorly armed groups of nobles and Imperial functionaries and tended to flee at the first sight of Tinkerer’s rockets. Others were much more formidable, usually formed around a hard core of cavalry officers whose troopers were proving to be the least likely conscripts to switch sides. These formations were also more numerous, some numbering close to ten thousand troops and volunteers and requiring an organised assault before being overcome or set to flight. The fighting could be fierce, those with the most to lose in the impending fall of the old regime proving capable of desperate resistance. But numbers always told in the end. By the time Corvus appeared on the horizon the People’s Freedom Army counted over two hundred thousand souls in its ranks, and an unbroken line of victories at its back.

“Fires are burning out of control in several districts,” Korian reported to the army council after returning from a reconnaissance to the capital. “Though most of the actual rioting seems to have died down. In the aftermath the city divided itself into warring factions. As you might expect the richer the neighbourhood the more likely it is to remain loyal to the crown.”

He turned to the map of Corvus spread out on the Electress’s desk, his finger making a circular motion around the outer suburbs. “We’ve managed to make contact with Brotherhood agents in most of the outlying slums. We’re confident they’ll join us when the army enters the capital. They’re lacking arms and ammunition but so are the loyalists.” His finger moved to the central districts, hovering over the Imperial Sanctum. “There were some initial attempts to storm the Sanctum when the riots broke out, all bloody disasters. It appears the Blood Imperial has gathered every Blood Cadre operative he can to defend the heart of the empire. In addition, our agents estimate Countess Sefka has between six and ten thousand troops, all well supplied with artillery. Added to that”—his finger moved east to where six large crosses had been pencilled within the confines of the Corvus harbour—“there are two Imperial cruisers and three destroyers at anchor and most of the city is within range of their guns. We can thank the Arradsian disaster there aren’t more.”

“Quite a formidable knot,” the Electress mused, tapping a stubby finger to her chin before turning to Arberus. “Untangle it for us, will you, General?”

Arberus studied the map in silence for some time, gaze narrowed in calculation. “Given the weight of opposition,” he said eventually, “siege might be a better strategy than direct assault.”

“Starve them out,” Varkash said, grunting in approval. “Seems preferable to anodder blood-bath.”

“The Sanctum’s vaults are copious,” Korian said. “And we have reports from all over the empire of loyalist forces marshalling for a march on the capital. It will take months before Sefka’s forces are weakened by siege, by which time we could be facing a loyalist army equal in size to our own.”

“What other intelligence do we have on these ships,” Arberus said, pointing to the harbour. “Just how keen are their crews to fire on their own people?”

“The Imperial Navy has always been a bastion of loyalty.”

“To the Emperor, yes. But he’s gone, and his mad excursion to Arradsia can hardly have endeared him to the rank and file. They have to come ashore for supplies. Send agents to contact the sailors when they do, the ordinary seamen not the officers. See if we can’t foment some discord.”

Lizanne’s gaze lingered on the harbour and the pencilled crosses. “You said five Imperial ships,” she said to Korian. “I count six.”

“That’s not an Imperial ship,” he replied. “Your people, it seems, have either opted to stay or been forbidden from leaving.”

“The Profitable Venture is still there?”

“And possessing enough fire-power to blow every other vessel at anchor out of the water,” Arberus pointed out, meeting her gaze. Although their intimacy might not have survived the revolution, they still possessed a facility for unspoken communication.

“It seems I have another mission,” Lizanne said.

The sailor stationed at the Profitable’s aft-anchor mounting gaped at her for a full two seconds before fumbling for his rifle. A half-formed challenge died on his lips as Lizanne reached out with Black to pluck the weapon from his grasp. “Exceptional Initiatives,” she told him, climbing down from the anchor chain and shaking the less-than-fragrant harbour water from her hair. “Please tell the Duty Officer to rouse Director Thriftmor and inform him of my arrival.”

Thriftmor was a markedly less composed figure than the unruffled diplomat she remembered. His hair was tousled from what Lizanne judged to be an unsettled sleep and his somewhat sagging, red-eyed visage told of a man beset by unaccustomed worries. “So, you’re alive,” were his only words as Lizanne was conveyed to the ship’s ward-room.

“And good evening to you, Director,” she replied, casting her gaze around the room to ensure they were alone.

“I find I have little appetite for petty niceties these days,” Thriftmor replied. He went to the drinks cabinet in the corner and poured a generous measure of brandy into two glasses. “Ice?” he enquired.

“No thank you.”

Thriftmor carried the glasses to the ward-room table and sat down, Lizanne moving to join him. The brandy was an excellent vintage and the finest liquor she had tasted for some time, fine enough for her to resist the impulse to drink it all at once. Director Thriftmor was not so restrained, gulping down the entire contents of the glass before asking a hoarse question, “Your mission?”

“Still progressing. I require your assistance to ensure its success.”

“Assistance?” Thriftmor gave a humourless smile and rose to pour himself some more brandy. “What possible assistance could I provide? I assume you have some awareness of our current situation?”

“Yes. You sit aboard the most powerful warship in the western hemisphere doing precisely nothing whilst the empire that has long been our enemy crumbles to pieces.”

“The Regency Council has formally ordered this ship not to leave the harbour. If we attempt to do so Countess Sefka has assured me hostilities will resume immediately.”

“War with the Syndicate is the last thing she wants just now. Her plate being somewhat overflowing.”

“It is Syndicate policy not to interfere in Corvantine internal disputes.”

“Yes. Curious then that I have spent much of my career doing just that. For decades the entire corporate world has been hoping for the day this empire faces its ultimate collapse. Now it’s finally here, do you really intend to do nothing?”

“We have an agreed treaty with the late Emperor. Countess Sefka has given assurances it will be ratified once the current criminal insurgency is dealt with.”

“Why wait?” Lizanne took an oilskin-covered packet from her pocket and tossed it onto the table.

Thriftmor lingered at the drinks cabinet, regarding the packet with grave suspicion as he polished off another full glass of brandy. “And what is that?” he asked, reaching once again for the bottle.

“A Mutual Assistance Agreement between the Corvantine Republic and the Ironship Syndicate, signed by all members of the Interim Governing Council. They will consider the agreement fully valid once your signature is added.”

Thriftmor gave a short, high-pitched laugh as he poured more brandy. “You expect me to formally and publicly support this rebellion on my own initiative?”

“Yes. And having done so, you will order the captain of the Profitable Venture to place his Blood-blessed under my authority and stand ready to fire upon the Imperial Sanctum at a time of my choosing.”

He gaped at her, brandy trickling from the upended bottle, spattering onto the floor as it missed his glass by a wide margin. “You are patently quite insane,” he said.

“If so, you are alone in a room with a Blood-blessed agent of the Exceptional Initiatives Division who also happens to be mad.” She placed her left arm on the table, the sleeve of her shirt rolled up to reveal the Spider, holding his gaze. “Just sign the document, Director,” she said with a bland smile. “Once you’ve introduced me to the captain I’ll let you go back to bed.”

The Profitable Venture had two thermoplasmic engines, each requiring its own Blood-blessed to operate. Lizanne met the pair of them in the captain’s cabin, the man himself having gone to oversee his ship’s surreptitious transition to battle stations. At first Lizanne took the two Blood-blessed for brother and sister, so similar were they in colouring, both with striking red hair and pale freckled skin. They also both had similarly narrow noses and eyes of dark green, so it was a surprise when the male Blood-blessed made the introductions, “Zakaeus Griffan. This is my wife Sofiya.”

“Sir, madam,” she greeted them both. “The captain has advised you of your change in circumstances, I trust?”

The two of them exchanged an uneasy glance. “We are to follow your instructions,” Mrs. Griffan said in a cautious tone.

“You are indeed.” Lizanne gestured at the captain’s desk where a pair of revolvers had been placed along with thirty rounds of ammunition. “Please arm yourselves. Product will be provided once we reach our objective.”

Neither of them moved, eyes tracking from the guns to Lizanne. “I . . .” Zakaeus Griffan faltered, coughed and tried again. “I didn’t catch your name, madam?”

“I didn’t give it.”

“Even so.” The man licked dry lips, forcing himself to meet her eye with a stern resolve. “Never having met you before, my wife and I cannot simply . . .”

“Standard Ironship Maritime Contract Number Seventy-four,” Lizanne cut in. “Pertaining to the employment of registered Blood-blessed aboard Protectorate Vessels. Clause Ten, sub-clause Twelve-B: All contracted Blood-blessed shall consider themselves subject to the orders of any Exceptional Initiatives agent who identifies themselves to the ship’s commanding officer. Failure to comply will be considered a breach of contract and result in forfeiture of all payments set out in this agreement, formal removal from the Register and a period of no less than ten years in an Ironship custodial facility.”

She forced down the spark of pity in her breast as she watched them clasp hands, Mrs. Griffan’s features tensing with the onset of tears. “I find myself with recent experience of prison life,” Lizanne told them, maintaining a stern tone. “I assure you it is far from pleasant.”

Zakaeus squeezed his wife’s hand, meeting Lizanne’s steady gaze with one of his own. “I will serve in my wife’s stead . . .”

“Unacceptable. I require both of you.” Lizanne moved to the desk, retrieving the revolvers and pushing them into the Griffans’ arms. “I’ll allow you five minutes of privacy,” she said, moving to the door. “After which I shall expect your presence on the fore-deck.”

They slipped ashore in the morning, disguised as crew members on the small launch the Profitable was permitted to send to the docks for supplies. Sofiya Griffan fidgeted continually as the launch neared the wharf, her face even paler beneath the peak of the cap under which her red locks had been concealed. Watching her Lizanne wondered if it might have been better to accede to her husband’s request. For all their gifts, Blood-blessed were people like any other and fortitude was a far from universal trait.

“Stop that!” Lizanne said in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grip the woman’s forearm as her hands began to tremble.

“I can’t . . .” Sofiya hissed back. “I can’t fight! I don’t know how!”

“I do not require you to fight,” Lizanne returned, casting a cautious glance at the Corvantine marines on the wharf.

“Then why drag us into this?” the woman persisted.

Lizanne watched the Protectorate sailors toss ropes to the marines. “In war the illusion of strength is as valuable as the reality. Now clench your fists and keep your gaze lowered. Do not say a word.”

As per his orders the Protectorate officer in charge of the shore party began to loudly harangue his coxswain for poor helmsmanship as soon as the gang-plank was lowered into place. He continued the diatribe as the sailors trooped onto the wharf, much to the apparent amusement of the onlooking marines. The sailors closed in on either side of Lizanne and the Griffans, shielding them from any curious glances as they made their way to the stacked crates containing the supplies.

“They may have counted us off,” a petty officer warned Lizanne as she moved to the far side of the crates.

“If they attempt to impede your return, kill them,” Lizanne replied, removing her sailor’s cap and tunic. “Try to be quiet about it.”

“We’ll be seen,” the man insisted. “Within seconds the whole harbour will be on alert.”

“Your captain has clear instructions should that occur. In a few hours it won’t matter anyway.”

Lizanne gestured for the Griffans to follow and made for a shadowed alley between two warehouses. “Both of you stay within three feet of my person at all times,” she told the couple as the shadow swallowed them. “And leave any talking to me.”

Lizanne was obliged to share some Green with the Griffans to enable a sprint past the outer cordon of Corvantine marines guarding the docks. A few shots were fired in their wake but their speed made it a waste of ammunition, not that Zakaeus seemed to appreciate the ease of their escape.

“You’re going to get us both killed!” he raged at Lizanne, pulling his wife close after she concluded a short bout of fear-induced vomiting.

Lizanne ignored him and turned her attention to the broad square ahead. They had taken shelter behind a huge tumbled pillar of bullet-pocked marble, part of the front edifice of the Corvantine Customs House, now transformed into little more than rubble. The square, once a small park of neat lawns and flower-beds, had become a shell-cratered patch of corpse-littered earth. Smoke rose in thick columns above the surrounding roof-tops and rifle fire echoed intermittently in the distance. Corvus, it appeared, was now more battleground than city.

Lizanne led them in a circuitous route around the square, keeping to the rubble piled on the fringes. Challenges came from various barricades as they followed a westward course through successive streets. Lizanne gave no answer to the shouted demands and for the most part those manning the barricades were content to let them proceed on their way. One, however, proved excessively keen for confrontation.

“Proclaim yourselves as true citizens!” a tall man called from atop a mound of loose brick and piled furniture, the Imperial flag flying from the pole he carried. He wore the besmirched clothing of a well-to-do member of the middling sort, this district lying at a decent remove from the dock-side slums.

“Proclaim or perish!” the tall man added, the others manning the barricade echoing what was evidently a newly born battle-cry. They were an ill-disciplined lot, evidenced by the volley of shots that rang out to accompany their exhortation. Lizanne dragged the Griffans behind an upturned coal-wagon as the bullets impacted around them like angry lead bees.

“Come out!” the tall man ordered. “Come out and procla—”

His words died as Lizanne injected a burst of Green, drew her pistol and darted out from behind the upturned wagon to slot a bullet between his eyes from a distance of thirty yards.

“I am a Blood-blessed soldier in the People’s Freedom Army!” she called out to the now-silent barricade. “And you’ve seen what I can do! Put down your weapons and go back to your homes!”

Lizanne hauled her companions to their feet and pushed them ahead. She wasn’t sure what effect her words might have had, but they made their way clear of this district without further incident.

“This is all?”

Besides Hyran, there were five people gathered in the basement of his grandfather’s long-abandoned shop, three men and two women. They were all much the same age, about twenty-five by Lizanne’s estimation, and also shared the ragged and besmirched appearance of those who had spent days in combat. They also had a hollow-eyed aspect that told of a lack of Green to stave off the consequent exhaustion.

“Every surviving Blood-blessed to have joined the Corvus rebels,” Hyran replied. “The empire takes all but a few into the Blood Cadre at a young age, so parents with radical notions tend to hide the true nature of any Blessed children.”

“What of the agents Arberus sent to the harbour?”

“It seems they found more willing ears than expected. Being cooped up for weeks hasn’t done much for morale and there’s many a sailor with family in Corvus. The general’s confident we can seize at least three ships when the time comes.”

“You’re her, aren’t you?” one of the Blood-blessed spoke up, a slender young woman with a bandage around her forearm. “Miss Blood?” Lizanne found herself discomfited by the gleam of awe in the young woman’s eyes. It seemed her legend had flown far wider than she thought.

“Just ‘miss’ will do,” Lizanne replied. “And you?”

“Jelna, here in the name of First Republic.” She cast a sour glance in Hyran’s direction. “The only true voice of revolution.”

“And the first to abandon the cause,” Hyran replied, which provoked Jelna into a combative snarl.

“Your Brotherhood has as much blood on its hands as the Regnarchy. You betrayed Bidrosin’s legacy . . .”

“Enough!” Lizanne broke in, her impatience with their radical feuding adding a hard edge to the command. They still can’t forget their petty squabbles even in the midst of all this. She took a moment to calm herself and nodded at the bandage on Jelna’s arm. “How bad is it?”

“Bullet graze.” Jelna shrugged, a cautious hopefulness creeping into her gaze as she eyed the satchel on Lizanne’s shoulder. “Stings a bit. A spot or two of Green would go down nicely.”

Lizanne placed the satchel on the floor, opening it to reveal the contents. “Courtesy of the IPV Profitable Venture,” she said. The captain had been none-too-happy about parting with almost the entire contents of the ship’s product safe. Consequently Lizanne had been obliged to issue a reminder of his obligations and the likely reaction of Director Bloskin should he fail to meet them. She shared the product out equally, Zakaeus and Sofiya accepting their vials with a reluctance that contrasted markedly with the enthusiasm of their new colleagues.

“Got enough Red here to burn down the whole fucking Sanctum,” one of the men commented. He spoke in coarse Varsal rich in the accent of the slums and wore a cavalryman’s coat, dark with dried blood and marked by several poorly stitched bullet-holes.

“This is Kraz,” Hyran introduced the man. “Besides me, the only surviving Brotherhood Blood-blessed in the city.”

“Luckily, burning down the Sanctum in its entirety shouldn’t be necessary,” Lizanne told Kraz. She reached into the satchel and extracted the two additional Spiders she had taken from the fallen Blood Cadre agents at the Battle of the Road. She handed one to Jelna and the other to Kraz before spending a few minutes educating them in the correct operation of the devices.

“Do you have any more of those?” Zakaeus asked, peering into the satchel.

“No,” Lizanne replied. “They’re only for fighters.”

She extracted her timepiece and did a rough mental calculation of how long it would take to get to the outer walls of the Sanctum. “We need an unobstructed route,” she said, realising they would be unlikely to reach their objective if required to traverse more barricade-ridden streets.

“Could try the sewers,” Kraz suggested.

“Most have been flooded,” Jelna said. “The Cadre learned a lot of lessons after the last revolution.”

“If we can’t go down,” Lizanne said, slotting a fresh vial of Green into her Spider, “we’ll have to go up.”

The roof-tops of Corvus were fortuitously rich in tiled slopes and broad ledges, which made traversing them at Green-enhanced speeds a relatively simple matter. Lizanne led the way, the others following her route as she sprinted and leapt from one roof-top to another. A few snipers, both rebel and loyalist, had taken to the upper levels of the city. Most just stood and gaped at the momentary intrusion into their domain, but a few possessed sufficient reflex and resolve to cast some shots in their direction.

“We’re on your side, you silly fucker!” Kraz admonished one unfortunate marksman whose bullet had added another hole to his already ragged garment. Fortunately it had passed through the Blood-blessed’s sleeve without finding any flesh, not that this cooled his anger any. Having injected a burst of Black he seized the sniper, marked out as a rebel by the Brotherhood symbol stitched onto his jacket. The fellow struggled vainly as he was lifted, legs dancing in thin air.

“Thought . . . you was . . . Cadre,” the man rasped out through a rapidly constricting throat.

“Leave the poor sod alone, Kraz,” Hyran said. “We ain’t got the time.”

Kraz’s face bunched in frustrated malice and he cast the sniper aside, tossing him end over end to land on the opposite roof-top amidst a cloud of shattered tiles.

“We’re just about there,” Jelna said, pointing to where the rows of streets came to an abrupt end. Beyond them lay the band of green fields surrounding the Sanctum. Lizanne went to the edge of the roof-top, eyes tracking over the expanse of well-maintained grass and shrubbery she remembered from her coach ride with the unpleasantly aromatic Chamberlain Yervantis. It was much the same but for the numerous bodies lying in a line of blackened, dismembered clusters all the way to the outer walls of the Sanctum.

“It would’ve fallen on the first day but for the Blood Cadre,” Jelna said, face dark as she stared at the piled bodies below.

Lizanne checked her timepiece once more and turned to the south, her boosted vision making out the dark mass of people streaming into the Corvus suburbs. The progress of the People’s Freedom Army was swift but not unopposed. Cannon shells exploded here and there along with frantic flurries of small-arms fire, but the loyalists were far too few in number to successfully contest the advance. Within minutes the rebel throng had reached the dense streets of the slums where their numbers swelled amidst an upsurge of cheering.

“Four minutes,” she told the others before injecting more Green and commencing a swift descent to ground level.

She had them form a line then led them across the fields in a sprint, raising a cloud of churned earth and shredded grass in their wake in an unmistakable sign of their nature. Lizanne brought them to a halt some four hundred paces from the wall, extreme range for a rifle-shot but not a cannon. A salvo of shells was launched almost as soon as they came to a halt.

“Remember,” Lizanne said to Hyran. “Just like I showed you.”

She injected a second long burst of Black and raised her gaze, finding the plummeting shells easily thanks to the Green in her veins. A concentrated burst of force was enough to explode three of the shells in mid air, Hyran taking care of the remaining two a split-second later. After that the cannon fell silent.

“We’re just going to stand here?” Zakaeus demanded. Lizanne turned to see he and his wife had edged back a little, faces slick with sweat.

“If you run,” Lizanne told Zakaeus in a flat, sincere tone, “I’ll break your spine and make you watch whilst I disembowel your wife. Now stand still and shut up.”

She turned back to the wall, eyes scanning the battlements as she felt the timepiece tick away in her pocket. Where are you, you old bastard?

It took perhaps a minute for the first Blood Cadre agent to appear, a man of slight build but with the age and bearing of a veteran. Lizanne’s unnatural vision picked out the gleam of the Imperial crest against the dark fabric of the man’s tunic. He was soon joined by more agents, dark-suited figures shoving soldiers aside as they crowded onto the battlements to view their enemy. Seeing the animosity on their faces, Lizanne was reminded of something the Blood Imperial had said in Azireh’s tomb: Many of my children want justice for their murdered brothers and sisters. Whatever the truth of that, it appeared he hadn’t deigned to join them in administering justice, for she couldn’t find any sign of him.

“This is . . .” Sofiya managed before choking into a terrorised silence.

“Madness,” her husband finished. “We can’t possibly fight so many.”

“I told you,” Lizanne said, raising her gaze to the sky as her ears detected a familiar, droning whine, “I do not require you to fight.”

The Profitable Venture’s captain had assured her that the required precision was well within the capabilities of his gun-crews. “A large static target,” he sniffed. “Just a matter of trigonometry, miss.”

It proved no idle boast. The first shell impacted directly atop the battlements some fifty yards to the left of where the Blood Cadre had assembled. Some were killed outright by the blast and the shrapnel, others reacted with impressive swiftness, leaping clear or sprinting in the opposite direction with Green-facilitated strength. It wasn’t enough to save them. The next four shells landed in quick succession, making the ground quake with every impact. The section of wall where the Blood Cadre had gathered dissolved into a storm of flame and shattered stonework. The bombardment continued for five minutes, the fall of shells pausing a few times as the gunners adjusted their aim so as to carve a breach in the wall a hundred feet across.

Hearing a growing, angry murmur at her back, Lizanne turned to see the vanguard of the People’s Army emerging from the streets fringing the fields. They came streaming over the green expanse, convicts from Scorazin, turncoat conscripts and thousands of rebel townsfolk all making for the smoking breach in the wall with no Blood Cadre to oppose their charge.

“I consider your contract fulfilled,” Lizanne told the Griffans. “Feel free to return to the ship, though I would advise hiding out for a few hours first.”

She hefted her revolver and glanced at the five rebel Blood-blessed who stood regarding the ruined wall with equal parts delight and anticipation. “Shall we?”

CHAPTER 46

Clay

A strange, guttural gasp rose from the crowd as they moved closer, jostling each other in their desire to gawp at the crystal rose crafted by the impossible powers of a little girl. The initial awe had given way to a collective hunger, as if the mere sight of something so incredible had transformed them all into children desperate to get their hands on a new toy.

“Stop this!” The voice cut through the crowd’s rising tumult like a knife. It was Devos Zarhi, standing apart from the encroaching throng, her arms raised and eyes lit with a manic light that put Clay in mind of Preacher in one of his rare talkative moments. “This . . .” the thin woman hissed, lowering her arms so both hands were pointed blade-like at the gently rotating crystal rose. “This vile corruption of the Benefactors’ gifts offends all who hold to the divine. Do not imagine they are blind to this!” She turned to the crowd, voice raised in shrill conviction. “Do not delude yourselves they will allow such interference in their design to go unpunished! Do not—”

“Oh, cease your prattle you ignorant fool!” It was Zembi, his face full of an anger that gave the lie to his studied mildness from only a few moments before. He had moved to place himself between Krizelle and Zarhi. Whilst not quite so imposing a figure as Veros Harzeh, he was still a substantially built man and his hunched bearing carried an obvious warning. “This girl is not a corruption of anything,” Zembi went on, addressing the crowd now. “Her gifts are innate, revealed only through blind chance. No one made her this way. My daughter is as much a gift as the crystals . . .”

“She is not your daughter,” Zarhi cut in, voice lowered now to a sibilant hiss. “You stole her.”

The rose stopped spinning, trembled for a second then fell to the floor. “Father?” Krizelle asked, moving to tug at Zembi’s robes. “What does she mean?”

“Oh yes,” Zarhi said, her features taking on a sympathetic grimace that didn’t alter the animosity still shining in her eyes. “Didn’t you know, little one? You share no blood with this man.”

“Liar!” Krizelle said, tears blooming in her eyes as she lunged towards the thin woman. Zembi caught Krizelle in a tight embrace, lifting her and carrying her away.

“This man stole you!” Zarhi called out. “Your real parents ache for your return . . .”

“LIAR!”

Clay winced at the thunder-clap sensation of a large amount of Black being released at once. Devos Zarhi was blasted off her feet like a twig caught in a gale. She slammed into the crowd, the crack of breaking bones mingling with a chorus of panicked shouting. The remaining throng retreated, some more resilient souls coalescing to resist the fleeing tide whilst others went to aid the pile of groaning bodies surrounding the crumpled form of Devos Zarhi.

Kriz froze the memory as Zembi ran for the exit, Assembly members fleeing from his path, the little girl in his arms staring over his shoulder at the carnage she had caused.

“I didn’t kill her,” Kriz said, moving to peer at the twisted and inert body of Devos Zarhi. “Though I’m told she never walked properly again. To my shame I find this does not trouble my conscience.”

“Was it true?” Clay asked. “About him stealing you?”

“Adopted is more accurate, albeit an adoption ordered by the Assembly. I have no memory of my parents. Zembi told me only that they were farmers . . . and that they feared their daughter greatly. Apparently a pack of Reds attacked the farm when I was an infant, descending out of the night to pick off the livestock. One got into the house and found me in my crib. My father shot it before it could eat me, but its blood got on my skin, in my mouth. And yet I didn’t die, but I did burn down the house. Fearing me subject to some curse sent by the Benefactors, they took me to the local Devos, a man far wiser than Zarhi here, who had a long-standing friendship with Philos Zembi, famed genius of the Enclave. Clearly I was far too important to be left in the hands of simple farmers.”

“And you never found out till that moment?” Clay asked.

“My education and co-operation were easier to achieve if I grew up believing we had a familial bond.”

“Still a shit thing to do.”

Kriz turned away from Zarhi to regard her father, staring at his tensed, determined features as he bore her younger self away. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I’ve come to understand that he was a man beset by many troubles. It’s often the way with those who dare to make their dreams a reality.”

She was older in the next memory, Clay guessing her age at somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This Krizelle stood on a lawn of well-tended grass alongside a large crystal structure Clay quickly realised he had seen before. It was a sculpture of a man holding both arms aloft. His hands appeared unfinished, frozen in the act of growing fingers. A quick survey of their new surroundings confirmed it, the vast granite wall of the mountain’s interior lit by a soft orange glow from below, the same hard-angled buildings with their balconies, bridges and stairs, so many stairs.

“The city beneath the Nail,” he said in a soft murmur, gaze tracking over the successive stairways that had taken him to his confrontation with the White.

“Welcome to the Philos Enclave,” Kriz said, stepping into view and frowning at the recognition evident in his face. “You’ve been here before.”

“That I have. It was . . .” He paused to gaze around at all the people crowding the various staircases and terraces. “. . . quieter then.”

“You mean empty,” she said with grim certainty. “Lifeless.”

“Not exactly. There was something living here alright.”

“What . . . ?” Kriz’s question died as a child’s cry of frustration sounded across the lawn. Clay saw the younger Krizelle going to comfort a boy several years her junior engaged in furiously kicking the mangled crystal ring at his feet.

“Won’t do what it’s told!” the boy fumed as he kicked.

“Come now, Hezkhi,” Krizelle said, laying a calm hand on his shoulder, taking a firmer grip until he stopped kicking. “What have we learned about anger?” she asked him.

The boy’s lips formed a momentary snarl as he prepared a scornful reply, but something in Krizelle’s kind but implacable gaze made him reconsider. “Anger is the barrier to clarity,” he mumbled.

“Quite so.” Krizelle knelt and retrieved the twisted crystal ring from the grass, holding it up for critical inspection. “What were you trying for?” she asked Hezkhi.

“A snake,” he said, affording the ring a sullen, accusatory scowl. “It ate itself.”

“Too many facets.” Krizelle ran a finger over the surface of the misbegotten snake. “You’re trying for too much detail. Remember these shapes are grown, not crafted. You have to let them find their own way.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and came out with a small vial. “Try again. I’ll guide you.”

“Blood-blessed,” Clay realised, watching the boy drink the product. “Zembi found another one?”

“Not just one.” Kriz nodded to her right, Clay turning to see a dozen or so more children near by, all engaged in the same activity. He estimated their ages varied from as young as seven to thirteen and their attempts to produce crystal sculptures weren’t much better than Hezkhi’s.

“Despite the . . . unfortunate incident at the Assembly,” Kriz said, “or perhaps because of it, Zembi was granted authority to seek out others like me.”

“He adopt them too?” Clay asked, seeing the obvious affection on her face as she gazed at the Blood-blessed youngsters.

“No,” she said. “But they still called him Father, nevertheless.”

A loud chiming sound came from above, Krizelle and the children all looking up towards the city’s summit in response. “It appears Father needs me,” she said, giving Hezkhi a final pat of encouragement before moving towards the nearest flight of stairs. “Stay here and finish the lesson. I’ll see you at supper.”

“He must have finished another monster,” the boy said, dropping his misshapen artwork to the grass and starting after her. “Let me come, Krizelle. I want to see.”

“No!” Krizelle’s tone was sharp enough to freeze the boy in place. “And they’re not monsters,” she added, in a softer tone, then pointed at the fallen sculpture until Hezkhi sulkily went to retrieve it. “Remember, let the crystal find its own way,” she reminded him before starting up the stairs.

Kriz and Clay followed her as she ascended successive tiers, exchanging numerous greetings with the people she passed. Although Clay saw none of the fear exhibited by the Assembly members, there was a notable deference in their demeanour, as if Krizelle, despite her youth, held some kind of authority here.

“Were you in charge or something?” he asked Kriz as they climbed.

“No, I held no formal position, except as tutor to the children. But informally . . .” She trailed off, face clouding as she watched her younger self turn a corner. “The more Father lost himself in his studies the more remote he became. Sometimes he wouldn’t appear for weeks. Since I was the only one to see him with any regularity, I became a conduit of sorts, his link to the rest of the Enclave.”

He guessed where Krizelle was leading them before he saw it, the unadorned rectangular building rising from a broad plaza of tiled stone. He was immediately struck by how different it looked, not just the people but the light. The orange glow of the lower tiers had disappeared, replaced by a soft white light cascading from above. Raising his gaze, he saw a crystal, far larger than any he had seen before, slowly revolving above the summit of the city.

“So you had your own sun here too,” he said, pausing to shield his eyes as he took in the sight. Despite all he had seen the wonder of it was still jarring. “How do they do that?” he asked Kriz. “Just hang there like that.”

She halted the memory, freezing the crystal’s slow rotation. “Would you like the scholarly explanation or the simple one?” she asked.

“Simpler would be better.”

“Very well. I don’t know. None of us did. Not even Father.”

Clay squinted at her. There was a faintly sheepish smile on her lips, eyebrows raised as if she were confessing a minor lapse of some kind. “What d’you mean?” he said. “Your people built all this. Built that place beneath the ice. How can you not know?”

“We didn’t make the crystals, Clay. We found them. We knew only what they did. We knew that if they were placed in proximity to a powerful heat source they would float in the air and exude a light that could both heal and nourish vegetation. That’s how we recovered from the Event, the crops grown with the crystals saved us and the settlements that cultivated them became the foundation of our civilisation.

“We also knew that, if subjected to sufficient force, the crystals could be persuaded to adopt different shapes. And we knew that they had fundamentally altered drake, and as it transpires, human biology. But how they did it.” She shrugged and turned away, unfreezing the memory and following her teenage self towards the building. “That we never knew. I sometimes think that’s what made Father . . . become what he became. For him, an unsolved mystery was always the worst torment.”

As they approached the building the familiar symbol above the entrance came into view. “What does it mean?” Clay asked, pointing at the upturned eye. “Keep seeing it everywhere.”

“The emblem of the Philos Caste. Philos meaning knowledge in the ancient pre-Event tongue.”

“And Devos and Veros?”

“Devos is the archaic collective term for the pantheon of pre-Event gods. In our time it’s become synonymous with those who serve the Benefactors. Veros, which translates literally as Overlord, now pertains to those who ascend to senior roles in the Assembly.”

They followed Krizelle into the building and down the deep stairwell to the chamber with the three domes. Once again it was different, the domes were there but the light that emitted from the apertures in their roofs was all the same colour. Krizelle led them towards the largest of the three domes, Clay feeling his heart quicken as they approached even though he was pretty sure he would find no White in residence this time.

“Are you alright?” Kriz asked, sensing his distress.

“Yeah,” he said, marvelling at his ability to sweat in a trance. “I’m just fine.”

The dome interior was not how he remembered it either. Instead of the glass floor there was a matrix of walkways, some level, some sloping down to the vast space below. In Clay’s time the space below the dome had been filled with drake eggs, but now it was sectioned off into a honeycomb-like series of glass-roofed, hexagonal rooms. He could see shapes beneath the glass, four-legged, long-tailed shapes. Some prowled back and forth whilst others lay unmoving.

Drakes, Clay realised, seeing the unmistakable form of a Green languidly coiling its tail below. It was smaller than its modern cousins, but still substantially larger than those he had encountered in the forest.

“Breeding pens,” he said. “This is where you harvested your product.”

“Yes.” Kriz spared a brief glance for the drakes below. “I assume you must have something similar.”

“Yeah, not so clean though.”

They came to a halt as Krizelle paused up ahead, her gaze drawn to something directly beneath the walkway. Clay moved closer to view the object of her interest. The glass roof of the room below was smeared with something dark, making it hard to discern the exact shape of what lay behind it. However, he could see that it was far larger than the others, its long tail coiled around a slumped, inert body.

“What is that?” Clay asked Kriz.

She continued to stare at the shape beneath the smeared glass. “For now, just another failed experiment.”

“Krizelle!”

They turned to watch Krizelle approaching a place where the various walkways converged to form a wide central platform. Zembi was waiting alongside Veros Harzeh. The intervening years had affected both men differently. Zembi’s hair had become noticeably thinner, as had his frame. Also his features now exhibited the gaunt, hollow-eyed look of a man who slept little. By contrast Veros Harzeh had become an even more substantial human being, his frame several inches wider and a large, grey-flecked beard covering his chin.

“So good to see you again,” Harzeh told Krizelle with a broad smile.

“Speaker,” Krizelle greeted him with a respectful nod. Clay noted that she exchanged no greeting with Zembi.

“Not for much longer,” the stocky man replied.

“Veros Harzeh comes with news,” Zembi told Krizelle. “Unwelcome if not unexpected.”

“Devos Zarhi won the plebiscite,” Krizelle said with a heavy sigh.

“I’m afraid so,” Harzeh said. “I’m sorry. But you know what this means . . .”

“It means our society has surrendered itself to fear, ignorance and superstition,” Zembi cut in. “A surrender I am not prepared to accept.”

“Zarhi will take over as Speaker within the year,” Harzeh said. “When she does . . .”

“The Philos Enclave will fall. Everything we have worked for will be destroyed. Decades of progress lost.” Zembi’s gaunt features spasmed in barely controlled fury before he mastered himself. “Fortunately, the Philos Caste has long anticipated this moment and we have not been idle.” He took an apple-sized crystal from his pocket and held it out to Krizelle. “Show him.”

Krizelle took out a vial and drank before reaching out with Black to pluck the crystal from Zembi’s hand. The ticking sound rose again as she began to transform it, first flattening it into a wide disc. A few seconds later the facets began to form themselves into a miniature landscape; rivers, valleys, mountains appearing in concentric circles. It reminded Clay of a shooting target, a flat outer ring, followed by an indentation that bespoke a body of water which in turn gave way to a mountainous region in the centre.

“What is this?” Harzeh asked, peering at the crystal model as Kriz finished crafting the last mountain.

“A new enclave,” Zembi said. “A whole world in microcosm. Self-contained and far removed from the petty superstitions that would impede us.”

“You want to build this?”

Clay saw Zembi exchange a glance with Krizelle. “We already have,” he said.

Harzeh voiced a loud, incredulous laugh then sobered when he saw the sincerity on Zembi’s face. “How?” he demanded. “Where?”

“You recall the southern polar expedition five years ago?” Zembi asked. “Its purpose went far beyond mere exploration.”

Harzeh laughed again, a soft gasp of bitter realisation. “So you lied to me, and to the Assembly.”

“Yes,” Zembi said, a fierce note of conviction colouring his voice. “And I’d tell a thousand more lies to achieve our goals. We are so close, old friend. You know how vital this is.” He moved closer to Harzeh, voice lowered to an intent murmur. “I intended to complete the transfer over the course of the next two years, but with the Assembly in the hands of that delusional woman time is no longer a luxury we enjoy. We need your assistance. The sun crystals still need to be transported, as do the children. Just three aerostats. That’s all I ask.”

Harzeh ran a meaty hand over his greying beard, frowning at the model. “Why so elaborate?” he asked.

“Drakes don’t flourish in captivity,” Krizelle said. “We lose more than half of every generation hatched here, and those that survive infancy tend to live only a few years. Father believes we have corrupted the blood lines. A fresh start is needed if we are to breed stock with sufficiently potent blood. A sealed environment simulating their natural habitat will achieve that.”

“Think of it, Harzeh,” Zembi said as the Speaker continued to ponder the model. “Within a few generations we will finally achieve convergence. Is that not a prize to risk everything for?”

Harzeh closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “We live in an age so wondrous it would have made our ancestors weep to see it,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if the Zarhis of the world don’t have the right of it. Should we not be content with the Benefactors’ gifts?”

“You may call it contentment,” Zembi said with hard certainty, “I call it blind indolence. You remember why we started this, old friend. Humanity once came within a whisker of extinction because we were too mired in ignorance to develop the means to deal with so great a calamity. Convergence will ensure that never happens again.”

Harzeh opened his eyes, gave the crystal model a final glance before nodding to Krizelle. “Thank you, child,” he said, turning and starting along the walkway towards the exit. “The aerostats will be here within the week,” he added without turning. “It will be my last act as Speaker before Zarhi calls for my exile. Be sure to use the time well.”

The memory broke up as the stocky man walked away, the dome swirling into mist then re-forming into a familiar landscape. It was the cliff-face from their trek through the mountains, but now partially covered with some kind of wooden scaffolding. A glance at the sky revealed the three crystal suns shining bright above it all.

Clay watched Krizelle navigate the scaffolding with the practised ease of an oft-performed task, descending a series of ladders before entering the wide opening in the cliff. She descended a long narrow passage then followed a winding course deep into the rock. The passage was lit by a soft orange glow that grew brighter the deeper they went. A five-minute journey brought them into a large cavernous chamber where a single walkway led from the passage to a large central platform. Beneath the walkway a series of stepped terraces descended towards a bright, fiery red circle. Clay had to squint at it to make out the sight of roiling lava. On each of the surrounding tiers lay eggs, hundreds, perhaps thousands of eggs all bathing in the glow of the lava pit.

“The crystals need thermal energy to work,” Kriz explained. “The greatest source of continuous natural heat in this world comes from beneath the earth’s crust. It’s why this site was chosen. The entire construct rests atop an active lava-stream.”

“They hatched,” Clay said, nodding at the eggs. “That’s where that sickly White came from, and all those Greens and Reds.”

“It seems the stream and the fault-line that produced it have become more active in recent years, hence the tremors. The increase in temperature must have caused a mass hatching.”

A soft voice drew their attention to the central platform where Krizelle was greeting an older and thinner Zembi. He stood at the edge of a large circular pit in the floor of the platform. A faint huffing sound came from the pit, along with the scrape of something hard on stone. Whatever lay below seemed to absorb Zembi’s complete attention and he failed to turn when Krizelle entered. Clay noted she came to a halt several yards from the edge of the pit and seemed distinctly disinclined to venture any closer.

Krizelle stood in silence for a time, watching her adoptive father with an expression that veered from frustration to concern and back again. To Clay’s eyes she seemed to be the same age as the Kriz he knew, meaning whatever was about to occur had taken place shortly before she began her centuries-long sleep.

“Hezkhi’s back,” Krizelle said, causing Zembi to stir from his reverie, though he barely glanced at her.

“And?” he said, a slight irritation to his voice.

“You were right. The Philos Enclave is abandoned. He flew on to the city, seeing burning buildings . . . people rioting in the streets. Then he landed in the desert and walked to a settlement. The people there were full of stories about abominate children born with vile powers. They say Speaker Zarhi launched a purge of these abominations, and for her pains one of them assassinated her three years ago. Since then . . .” Krizelle shrugged, repeating softly, “You were right.”

Zembi gave a vague nod and returned his attention to the pit. Clay saw Krizelle bite down some angry words before forcing herself to step closer. “Still no response?” she asked.

“Your sister tried again this morning.” Zembi waved a hand at something lying near by. “Nothing.”

Clay turned to the object, finding it to be a crystal, one of four in fact. They were shaped differently from the other crystals he had seen in Kriz’s memories, with jagged spines that gave them a star-like appearance. They gave off no illumination but he was able to discern that they were all different colours: red, green, blue and one so dark it seemed to swallow the light. His mind immediately flew to the domes and the crystals he had seen there, the blue one that had so entranced the Spoiled Briteshore miners.

“You should destroy it,” Krizelle said, drawing his gaze back to the pit. She had edged closer to Zembi, but still kept several feet between herself and the edge. The expression on her face as she leaned forward to peer at the occupant was one he had seen before, back when she blew up the pack of Blues with her bomb-thrower.

“Premature,” Zembi muttered in response. “She still has much to show us.”

Krizelle let out a sigh and removed her gaze from the pit. “Father, the situation at home . . .”

“This is your home.” The old man finally turned to face her, a vestige of a paternal smile on his lips.

“My own kind are being persecuted. Hunted like animals . . .”

“And what fate do you imagine awaits you if you return? I built this place to be a refuge for you and your siblings, a place to shelter from the storms I knew were coming. The world changed forever with your birth, and change is never easy.”

“You expect us to just live out our days in this . . . pretence of a world? Some of the others have started calling it a prison, and consider you their gaoler.”

Zembi let out a sigh of his own, though it was more of a resigned groan. “Then it’s time,” he said, starting towards the walkway.

“Time for what?” Krizelle called after him.

“To sleep,” he said, voice echoing in the cavern. “You always knew this day would come. We will sleep and, fate permitting, awaken to a better world . . .”

His voice faded away, leaving Krizelle in silent contemplation. She remained still for some time, arms folded tight across her chest, then started as a loud, rasping roar came from the pit.

“Be quiet!” Krizelle shouted, moving to the edge of the pit where she stared down at the occupant in unabashed hatred. After a second her face softened to a resentful mask and she stepped back again. “It’s unfair of me to despise you so,” she said. “We have so much in common, after all. Like you, it appears I should never have been born.”

As she turned to go Clay stepped forward, looking down and finding himself staring into the eyes of a White Drake. It was about a third the size of a full-grown adult, its scales marked by ugly wet patches like the one they had killed on the mountainside. His pulse began to race as he continued to stare into the beast’s eyes, bright with understanding and dark with malevolent promise. Knows it’s in a cage, he thought. And doesn’t like it.

“Father’s greatest achievement,” Kriz said, moving to Clay’s side. “The product of decades of cross-breeding and chemical interference. It was supposed to be the key to convergence, a great and precious gift that would change everything.”

“You made it,” Clay said, his thumping heart slowing as a cold anger built in his chest. “You brought it into the world.”

There was a tightness to her gaze now, her features clenched against something it took him a moment to recognise: shame. “You didn’t know, did you?” he asked. “What it was capable of. You had no idea.”

Kriz stared at him for a moment, frowning in incomprehension until the realisation hit home. “The threat you spoke of,” she whispered. “The thing you woke up. Is this it?” Her voice rose as she stepped towards him, gripping his shoulders, demanding. “Did it get loose . . . ?”

She trailed off as a shudder ran through the trance, the surrounding cavern taking on a misty appearance. “What’s happening?” she said.

“The Blue’s starting to thin,” Clay said. “Whatever you brought us here to do, you need to do it now.”

She cast a frantic gaze down at the now-shimmering form of the White. “But there’s still more to show you, more to explain . . .”

“We ain’t got time. You said we needed to trance to open that thing. How do we do it?”

Kriz grimaced in frustration then tore her gaze from the White. “Very well,” she said, and the memory vanished, leaving them in a pale grey void. Clay looked around, seeing white flecks in the void that bespoke an imminent loss to the trance connection.

“One of Zembi’s better notions,” Kriz said, staring straight ahead and frowning in concentration, “was to bond drake blood with the crystals at a molecular level. When Blue was used it enabled a meeting of minds, even between those who don’t have our gifts.”

Clay watched a misty white form shimmer into being just in front of Kriz. It flickered and expanded for several seconds before settling into a vaguely human shape. “So you can trance with Zembi?” he asked. “Even though he’s not Blood-blessed?”

“The connection is limited, but enough for basic communication.” Kriz continued to focus on the shimmering form. “I just need to—”

She choked off into silence, sagging in his grasp, a dark jet of blood erupting from her mouth. Clay gaped as she collapsed, still choking, his gaze finding the knife buried to the hilt in the back of her neck.

“Were you under the impression,” Silverpin asked as she strode towards them across the grey void, “that I wasn’t the jealous type?”

CHAPTER 47

Hilemore

“Don’t look like near enough,” Scrimshine said, peering at the contents of the barrel sitting open on the mid-deck. A fist-sized bundle of gun cotton sat in the barrel surrounded by a mixture of loose chain and nails.

“A submerged explosion carries far more force than one in the open air,” Hilemore replied. “And I’d rather not handle this material in any larger quantities than we have to.”

Scrimshine gave a wry shake of his head and seemed about to speak again but fell silent as an irksomely familiar vibration thrummed the deck. “Will that bastard ever shut up?” he wondered in a soft but shrill mutter.

They had continued to sail north since encountering the Blue, covering another eight miles throughout the succeeding day and night. All the while the beast prowled the waters beneath the hull, casting out its gathering call. So far, however, none of its brethren had seen fit to answer. The tension evident in the crew ratcheted up with every passing hour and none had slept except in short, shallow naps brought on by sheer exhaustion. The two dozen modified barrels on the mid-deck had been conceived by Hilemore as much to occupy the men’s fear-wracked minds as to provide some meaningful defence against the inevitable Blue assault.

Each barrel was stocked with a dense ball of gun-cotton, packed with whatever scrap metal they could find and the top covered by a circle of waxed canvas. In addition, a string of stoppered, empty grog bottles had been tied around the waist of each barrel. Manufacturing it all had taken several hours of labour that served to distract the men from doom-laden notions, but no amount of work could completely banish their fears.

With the barrels completed, and in need of something more to occupy the crew, Hilemore followed Scrimshine’s suggestion and had them begin throwing all excess weight overboard. Half the cannonballs went first, followed by all the guns save the one Steelfine had managed to get into working operation. After that he ordered every spare stick of furniture over the side and instructed Steelfine to identify any further fittings not essential to sailing the ship. He wasn’t sure if any of this actually increased their speed, but he fancied the wake left by the Dreadfire in the otherwise placid waters had begun to broaden a fraction, which at least was something.

The alarm call finally came two hours past noon, just as Hilemore had begun ordering the wall planks stripped from the captain’s cabin. He rushed onto the deck, looking up to see Braddon Torcreek standing alongside Preacher in the crow’s nest. The Contractor captain pointed east and opened his hand, spreading the fingers wide. Five of them. “A mile off!” Braddon added, shouting through cupped hands.

Hilemore kept the dismay from his features, striding forward and casting out a string of orders, sending the crew rushing to follow a pre-rehearsed drill. “Furl sails! Drop anchor fore and aft! Mr. Steelfine, to your gun, if you please! Deck crew stand by to deploy mines!”

The deck crew consisted of Scrimshine and Skaggerhill at the starboard rail and Hilemore and another crewman on the port. They waited until the anchors bit the sea-bed, bringing the Dreadfire to a dead stop, then began hauling rope through block and tackle.

“Gently man,” Hilemore cautioned as the first mine was lifted off the deck. They hauled it a good few inches clear of the rail then slowly swung it out over the side before lowering it into the water. The temptation to rush the task was strong but Hilemore was wary of how the gun-cotton would react to any sudden movements. The barrel sank into the water two-thirds of its length before floating free of its enclosing mesh of ropes. Hilemore took an oar and gave it a soft shove, provoking the crewman at his side to take a deep breath and hold it until the device bobbed its way out to a safe distance.

“Only another twelve left,” Hilemore told the man, clapping him on the shoulder and moving to the stern.

It took fully ten minutes of nerve-stretching labour to float off the mines, during which time Scrimshine contrived to jerk his rope a little too fast, causing the device to tumble free of its ropes. The entire crew froze and stared at the tottering barrel spinning on its base until coming to a juddering stop.

“Slipped me grip, Skipper,” the smuggler said with a weak smile. Some of the crew were vociferous in calling for Hilemore to “tip that bilge-scum over the side,” to which he replied, “We’re short-handed. Draw your rifles and stand ready. I suspect we’re in for some hot work today.”

By the time one of the deck crew called out a sighting the Dreadfire sat surrounded by a floating ring of mines. Hilemore craned his neck and called up to the crow’s nest. “At your discretion, gentlemen!” Braddon replied with a wave whilst Preacher simply crouched and put his rifle to his shoulder.

“Leave the mines to the Contractors,” Hilemore repeated to the crew in a soft murmur as he paced along the deck. “Aim at any drake that shows itself above water and then not unless they’re at pistol-range. Aim for the eyes. Anything else is a waste of ammunition.”

He completed his tour and moved to where Steelfine and Skaggerhill crouched at their only cannon. They had crafted a raised platform from the few bits of furniture that hadn’t been tossed overboard. The twelve-pounder sat atop it, the barrel at full elevation and packed with both ball and chain-shot. Steelfine touched a match to a taper as Skaggerhill packed a wad of gun-cotton into the touch-hole.

“Hardly a rifled pivot-gun,” Steelfine commented as Hilemore came to his side. “Hauling her about won’t be easy. But she’ll do.”

She’ll have to, Hilemore said inwardly, turning his gaze to the water. The surface remained placid but for the occasional swirling eddy and the ripples caused by the bobbing barrels. A hush settled over the ship, the stillness made more ominous by the realisation that the Blue beneath their hull had stopped its call. The pack is gathered, Hilemore thought. Now all that remains is the kill.

The first attack was so swift it almost proved disastrous, a Blue rearing up twenty yards off the port bow, mouth gaping to deliver its fire. The flames had already lanced out towards the hull when Preacher fired his longrifle, detonating the barrel just to the left of the beast. The resultant explosion dispelled any doubts as to the efficacy of their invention, and also made Hilemore wonder if they hadn’t overdone it with the gun-cotton. The ship shook from end to end, heaving on the swell birthed by the blast. Fortunately the anchor cables held and she stayed in position. Hilemore staggered across the swaying deck to the rail to gauge the effect on the Blue, seeing it coiling in a spreading red mist. The explosion had almost cut it in two, its mouth opening to deliver a pathetic final stream of fire before it slipped into the depths.

Another shot sounded from above and an explosion erupted thirty yards to starboard. Again the Dreadfire shuddered, shifting to port as the blast wave caused her to drag her anchors. “Got the bastard!” Scrimshine yelled, pointing to a large slick of gore on the rippling surface.

Preacher and Braddon detonated two more mines in quick succession, one blasting a drake into several large pieces a short distance from the prow, the other without obvious result though it did appear to herald a lull.

“Scared them away good and proper, sir,” a crewman commented to Hilemore, face flushed with relief and triumph.

“Look to your front!” Hilemore snapped. “This isn’t over yet.”

For a time it appeared the Blues intended to prove him wrong, launching no more attacks for a full quarter hour. “Any thoughts, Mr. Skaggerhill?” Hilemore asked the harvester quietly as the calm dragged on.

“Not my speciality, Captain,” Skaggerhill replied. “Could write volumes about land drakes, Blues’re something else.” His craggy features bunched in consternation as he scanned the water. “Were they Greens I’d hazard they’re waiting for nightfall.”

Hilemore looked up, seeing the first glimmer of stars in the darkening sky. Night came early and fast in polar climes, something the Blues were certain to know. “Light the lanterns!” he called out. “And rig torches, all you can make!”

By the time the sun began to dip the Dreadfire was brightly lit from bow to stern, making Hilemore grateful for the fact that he hadn’t tipped any oil over the side. The mines had begun to drift farther away as the minutes dragged by, coming close to the edge of the glow cast by the lights. Hilemore ordered two small rafts fashioned from the planks they had ripped from the walls of the captain’s cabin. Empty barrels were lashed in place for buoyancy before the small craft were piled with oil-soaked rope and set adrift to port and starboard. Torches were thrown to set the rafts alight and the mines flickered back into view, along with something else.

The spines cut the water just beyond the ring of mines, wakes bright in the glow of the burning rafts. Hilemore’s gaze swept around, seeing spines knifing through the surface on all sides. The Blues were circling the Dreadfire.

“Shoot them!” Skaggerhill shouted, casting his voice up at the crow’s nest. “They’re gonna rush us all at once! Shoot the mines!”

As if in response a set of spines immediately turned and slipped below the surface, an action mimicked by the drakes on either side. “Open fire!” Hilemore ordered, calling out to every crewman on deck. “Aim for the mines!”

Water spouted all around the ship as the crew obeyed, the crackle of rifle fire joined by the deeper blast of Preacher’s longrifle. Three mines exploded in quick succession, two to starboard and one to port. Realising there was scant cover at the stern, Hilemore retrieved the spare rifle he had slung over the wheel and rushed aft. He could see a mine bobbing on the surface thirty yards off, raised high by the swell as something very large passed beneath it. He put the rifle to his shoulder and fired, missing by several inches. Hilemore cursed, reloaded, took a shallow breath, held it and fired again. The mine blew, transforming the surrounding water into a cascade of white, shot through with red. He caught a glimpse of the Blue’s snout, snorting blood into the air before it sank.

Three more explosions shook the ship, causing her to heave to and fro at alarming angles. Hilemore was pitched from his feet, his head connecting painfully with the deck. He lay there dazed for several seconds, vision clouded and ears filled with a high-pitched buzzing, a buzzing that transformed into screams as the confusion faded. He scrambled upright and turned to the bow, finding much of the forward rigging in flames. A Blue was in the process of hauling itself aboard, huge coils bunching and thrashing as it forced its bulk out of the water, fire spewing from its gaping maw all the while. One man writhed on the deck, covered all over in flames. Hilemore saw another leap over the side, hands scrabbling at the blaze engulfing his head and shoulders.

The Blue’s flames died as it shifted its bulk, shattering timber and rigging in an effort to gain purchase on the ship. A flurry of rifle-shots cracked out and the beast reared, screaming as blood spouts erupted around its eyes. Hilemore cast his rifle aside and drew his revolver, charging across the deck and firing, a bestial roar erupting from his throat. As if recognising a challenge the Blue focused on him, one eye narrowing whilst blood and viscous fluid leaked from the other. It hissed, its crest flaring as it reared up, mouth gaping as the heat-haze formed around its maw.

Hilemore suddenly found himself in the air, propelled off his feet by a fresh explosion on the fore-deck. Time seemed to slow as he flew backwards, enabling him to enjoy the sight of the upper half of the drake’s body disintegrating into red-and-blue pulp. Its severed head turned end over end, casting out a crimson spiral before disappearing over the side.

Hilemore landed with a jarring impact that left him winded and immobile. He lay there, chest heaving as he tried to will strength into numb limbs. “C’mon, Skipper,” Scrimshine grunted as he put Hilemore’s arm over his shoulders and hauled him upright. “Not quite time for bed.”

The twelve-pounder lay on the mid-deck, smoke rising from the barrel which had shattered down to the breech. Steelfine stood next to the remnants of the gun platform, his taper still in hand and much of his clothing hanging from his massive frame in charred tatters. As Hilemore limped closer he saw that the Islander’s face was blackened and his eyebrows appeared to have been singed away.

“All right, Number One?” Hilemore asked him, drawing a blank gaze, Steelfine’s eyes blinking in the ashen mask of his face. “A little deaf perhaps?”

“Apologies, sir,” Steelfine replied in a hoarse bellow. “You’ll have to speak up. I think I may be a little deaf.”

Hilemore grasped his shoulder briefly and moved away, straightening his back and forcing the limp from his leg. “Let’s get some buckets over the side, lads!” he called out. “I want this blaze extinguished in five minutes!”

Morning brought still waters and no sign of any drakes. Incredibly one mine had survived the night, bobbing indifferently on the surface a short way off to starboard. “Got ’em all, d’you think?” Scrimshine wondered, cocking an ear towards the deck. “No call that I can hear.”

“I’d prefer not to wait and find out,” Hilemore said, raising his voice to a moderate shout as he turned to Steelfine. “Unfurl the sheets, Number One.”

Damage to the fore-deck was severe but not fatal, leaving the Dreadfire with a blackened prow and partially denuded deck. The loss of two more crewmen was of far greater concern, not least in the fresh wave of guilt it left in Hilemore’s breast. To have followed me such a long way and receive an ugly death as their only reward. Added to the guilt was the inescapable fact that they now had two less bodies to work the rigging. Hilemore considered it an odd piece of good fortune that they didn’t possess more sails since working a fully rigged vessel of this size would have been impossible with so few hands. Even so, progress was painfully slow, every course change a trial of frantic rope pulls and hands made raw by hauling canvas.

They gave the burnt body of their crewmate to the King of the Deep after they had been underway for a good few hours. Hilemore entertained the faint hope they had denied the fellow’s flesh to any Blues that might have lingered at the scene of the battle. The fiery spectacle of Mount Reygnar grew on the horizon as they followed the winding channel through the ice. Hilemore trained his spy-glass on the volcano to watch the red-orange gouts of lava cascade over the lip of the crater to flow in sluggish rivulets down its flanks to the sea. The base of the mountain was perpetually shrouded in mist now, the waters raised to the boiling-point by the continuing tide of lava.

“Pondering the question as to how we’ll get by that thing?”

Hilemore turned to find Braddon had joined him at the prow, his shrewd gaze focused on the blazing mountain. They could hear it as well as see it now, crying out with a throaty, booming roar every time it spewed up another gobbet of molten rock.

“We’ll keep to the fringes,” Hilemore said. “It’ll take some careful sailing, but I think we’re equal to the task.”

“More worried about the gas. There’s volcanoes in south-west Arradsia given to coughing up all manner of foul humours.”

Hilemore knew that the Contractor was right but also knew they had no alternative. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this knowledge with the men, Captain Torcreek,” he said.

Braddon gave a small shrug. “As you wish . . .”

His brow furrowed and his shoulders took on an involuntary hunch as a boom sounded from astern. From the length of the echo Hilemore judged the source to be a few miles off. He and Braddon hurried aft, Hilemore training his glass on the distant maze of bergs. “That a cannon?” Braddon wondered.

“No.” Hilemore’s glass stopped as it alighted on something between two large bergs. Something large jutting out of the water to a height of at least twelve feet. “It was the mine we left behind.” He watched the huge spine slip below the water. It didn’t kill him, he thought. Of course it didn’t.

“Captain!” Preacher called down from the crow’s nest, pointing to something off the starboard bow. Hilemore didn’t require the glass to find the object of the marksman’s alarm. The water some twenty feet across appeared to be boiling, though there was no steam. Huge bubbles rose and burst on the surface, which soon began to swell as something very large rose from the depths.

“Last Look Jack brought a friend,” Hilemore murmured, a wry, despairing grin forming on his lips. I should have had them make more mines.

CHAPTER 48

Clay

This is impossible. Clay held Kriz as she shuddered, blood still pouring from her mouth in a dark torrent. This can’t happen.

Silverpin gave a soft laugh, Clay looking up to find her standing with her arms crossed and a triumphant grin on her lips. “If we can fuck in here,” she said, “why do you imagine we can’t kill too?”

Clay clamped down on his burgeoning rage, returning his gaze to Kriz and seeing the light begin to dim in her eyes. “The trance,” he said, pulling her closer. “End it.”

Kriz just stared up at him in agonised incomprehension, her convulsions coming in shorter, weaker spasms now.

“Feel free to leave if you like,” Silverpin said. “But she stays. Her mind thinks this is all real, you see. Shock I expect.”

All real . . . “No,” he grated. “Nothing here is real.”

He closed his eyes and concentrated, the grey void around them transforming into Nelphia’s dusty surface. My mindscape, he thought, turning Kriz over and taking hold of the knife embedded in the back of her neck. I decide what’s real here. He pulled the knife free with a quick jerk of his wrist and concentrated on the gushing wound left by the blade. It’s not bleeding. He summoned the image of Kriz, healed and undamaged, willing it into being. The blood faded away and the wound vanished, Kriz letting out a moan of agonised relief, though she still lay limp in his arms.

“Oh no,” he heard Silverpin say in a hard, intent voice. “I don’t think so, Clay.”

He took a firmer hold of Kriz and surged upright, raising dust as he whirled away with unnatural speed. Silverpin cast a brace of knives after them, aiming for Kriz. He summoned a blast of wind to deflect the spinning shards of metal and sank into a crouch, Kriz still clutched in his arms.

“My mind,” he told Silverpin. “And I don’t remember inviting you.”

He raised a hand, summoning a gun to fill it, the Stinger he had lost within the mountain. Silverpin leapt as he fired, tumbling across the mindscape like a surface performer as the bullets raised dust in her wake. She came to a halt as the Stinger clicked empty, laughing again in the face of Clay’s rage. He could feel the trance fading fast, cracks appearing in Nelphia’s surface.

“Your mind is my mind too,” Silverpin called to him. “My home, you could say. Call me greedy, but I’ve never been fond of sharing.”

“I don’t want you any more!” Clay shouted, rising with Kriz held tight in his arms.

“If that was true I wouldn’t be here.” Silverpin’s face became suddenly sombre, sad almost. “You saved me, Clay. Kept this part of me inside you. Looks like we’re stuck with each other for a very long time.”

“I don’t want you any more!” he repeated, teeth clenched as he willed truth into the words. In response another crack appeared in the ground between them, broader than the others and emitting a deep orange glow. Clay looked down to see lava bubbling in the bottom of the newly created chasm. It was darker than the molten lake he had seen beneath the mountain, the fiery soup shot through with streaks of blood red.

Guess that’s what rage looks like, he thought, raising his gaze to Silverpin. “I . . . don’t . . . want . . . you . . . anymore!” he told her in a harsh, grating whisper and had the satisfaction of watching the surety fade from her face.

“Without me what are you?” she demanded, tone edged in desperation. “You’re like a child lost in the jungle, fumbling around, trying to find a way to defeat something you can’t even understand. The White remembers and it doesn’t forgive. When it comes for you . . .”

Her words died as Clay shattered the ground beneath her feet, sending her tumbling into the depths of the chasm. She screamed as she fell, all the way down to the molten river where she screamed some more until falling blessedly silent.

“End the trance,” Clay said, taking hold of Kriz’s face, shaking it gently to bring some life into her eyes.

“Father . . .” she whispered, a glimmer of focus returning to her gaze. She angled her head, once again summoning the shimmering human shape.

“Forget him!” Clay told her. The trance was crumbling around them as the last few drops of Blue faded. They had only seconds before waking. “None of this is real,” he told her in a gentle murmur. “Just a bad dream and it’s time to wake up . . .”

Clay staggered as the trance vanished, finding himself staring into Loriabeth’s concerned face. He realised he was drenched in sweat, his heart hammering in his chest. “Started to think you’d stay in there forever, cuz,” she said in a voice laden with relief.

A harsh guttural moan drew his gaze to where Kriz lay, body jerking as it had in the trance, albeit without the blood pouring from her mouth. He crouched to embrace her, holding her until the spasms ceased. “It’s alright,” he said softly, watching her eyelids flutter. “We’re out. Y’gotta wake up now.”

She gave a plaintive groan, like a child reluctantly roused from sleep, opening her eyes to regard him with a fearful gaze. “Who was that?” she asked in near-perfect Mandinorian.

“Somebody best forgotten.”

A loud grinding rumble filled the chamber and Clay looked up to see a thin line had appeared in the egg’s surface. As he watched the line widened into a gap, the grinding growing louder as the four segments that comprised the egg slid apart, unleashing a brief torrent of pale, greyish liquid. Clay helped Kriz to her feet and the four of them backed away. The light emanating from the crystal had altered, becoming more intense whilst also taking on a pronounced flicker. Beneath it the four segments ground to a halt, revealing something small and hunched. The crystal flared even brighter for a second then faded into a soft glow.

“Father!” Kriz said in her own language, starting forward.

“Wait.” Clay tried to catch hold of her arm but she was too quick, rushing towards the huddled form on the dais, then drawing up short at the sight that greeted her.

The hunched figure shuddered and as it did so the damp scales on its back glittered in the light from the crystal.

“Seer-damn Spoiled!” Loriabeth cursed, pushing Kriz aside and levelling a pistol at the huddled figure.

“Don’t!” Clay warned, though he had his revolver drawn as he approached the huddled and shivering Spoiled. “Guess this was something else that wasn’t s’posed to happen, huh?” he asked Kriz.

She said nothing, continuing to stare at the naked Spoiled in dumb shock. Finally she swallowed, blinked tears and said, “Father?”

The Spoiled’s shudders ceased, freezing in what might have been terror. Or he’s getting ready to spring, Clay thought, half-raising his revolver.

“Father,” Kriz repeated. “It’s me. It’s Krizelle.”

The Spoiled issued a low groan and shifted in response, arms unfolding to reveal two long-nailed hands that were more like claws. It raised its hairless, spined head and blinked yellow eyes up at Krizelle. Even by the standards of the Spoiled, Clay had never seen a more deformed face. The once-human features had been completely submerged beneath a thick covering of leathery scales, the brows ridged with gnarled protrusions and a line of twisted, needle-like spines traced back from the forehead to the base of the neck. He could recognise nothing of the man he had seen in Kriz’s memories, but apparently she could.

“Father . . .” she breathed, sinking to her knees and extending a hand.

“Best you don’t get too close, hon,” Loriabeth cautioned.

Kriz ignored the warning, reaching out to touch her fingertips to the Spoiled’s forehead. “I know . . . your eyes,” she said, choking out the words as tears slipped freely down her cheeks.

Zembi recoiled from her, shaking his spiny head in warning as he shrank back. It was then that Clay saw he had something on a chain around his neck. Something long, shiny and very sharp.

“Back!” Clay lunged for Krizelle just as Zembi surged upright, the long sharp object clutched in his claws. His deformed features were set in a raging mask and a roar of animalistic fury erupted from his throat. He was fast, the shiny spike in his claw blurring as he stabbed towards Kriz’s chest, but Loriabeth was faster.

The pistols thundered in her hands, muzzles flaming as she emptied all twelve chambers, displaying a speed and accuracy Clay doubted even the late Miss Foxbine could have matched. Zembi spun as the bullets struck home, blasting holes in his glittering hide and sending spirals of blood across the dais. Kriz screamed as the guns fell silent and he collapsed, spasming on the stones in a spreading pool of blood.

Kriz rushed to kneel at his side, hands fluttering over his wounds. “How?” she sobbed. “We were supposed to wake . . . to a better world . . .”

Blood gouted from Zembi’s mouth, his scaled lips twisting over elongated teeth as if in a snarl. Clay stepped forward, ready to put a bullet in the ancient Spoiled’s head should he lunge at Kriz, then saw that Zembi was trying to speak. Kriz leaned closer to catch the faint, sibilant words, each one accompanied by a plume of blood. Clay couldn’t make sense of any of it and quickly realised Zembi was speaking a language different from the one he had learned in the trance, a language Kriz had evidently chosen not to share. Her sobs faded as she listened, her face transforming from grief into a hard angry resolve.

Zembi fell silent, his clawed hands fumbling for the spike on the chain about his neck. Clay stepped forward, thumbing back the hammer on his revolver, then stopped as Kriz waved him back with a raised hand. Zembi guttered out another word as he held up the spike, which Clay now saw was in fact a narrow shard of crystal. Kriz gave a sombre nod, lifting the chain and crystal over Zembi’s head and placing it around her neck.

“You were perhaps the greatest man who ever lived,” she said, dropping back into her more familiar tongue as she smoothed a hand over Zembi’s deformed brow. “And the worst.”

Zembi’s lips formed what might have been a smile as he shuddered for the final time, slumping into death with an inhuman rattle.

“What language was that?” Clay said as Kriz continued to kneel at Zembi’s side, her fingers twitching on the crystal shard.

“The ancient tongue,” she murmured, not lifting her gaze from the body.

“What did he tell you?”

Kriz didn’t reply, instead raising the crystal shard and staring into its many facets. Clay was about to demand an answer when the floor suddenly shifted beneath his feet. A deep, muted rumble filled the chamber as the tremor continued, the floating crystal taking on a rapid flicker.

“The fault-line is shifting,” Kriz said as the tremor subsided. “We don’t have long.”

She gave Zembi a final, damp-eyed glance before wiping her tears away and getting to her feet. “To answer your question,” she said, switching to Mandinorian as she turned to address all three of them, “he told me the way out.”

She gathered up her pack and moved towards the rear of the chamber, Clay and the others hurrying to follow suit. The tremor rose and fell in intensity as they made their way onto the circle where the plinth lay. Clay noticed how the crystal’s flicker seemed to match the tremor, the stronger it was the dimmer it became.

“Fluctuations in the energy flow,” Kriz explained, dropping back into her own language as she hurried towards the plinth. “The Philos geologists estimated the fault would remain stable for at least another twenty thousand years.” She winced as an even more powerful tremor shook the chamber and a booming crack came from the shadows. “It seems they were overly optimistic.”

“What’s she saying, cuz?” Loriabeth asked.

“We need to get out of here,” Clay replied, side-stepping a stream of powdered rock that came cascading down from above. “And damn quick, by the sound of it.”

Kriz pressed her hand to the crystal embedded in the plinth, which failed to respond with the expected flare of light. Cursing, she tried again, this time the crystal producing a faint, fluttering glow. The stone beneath their feet gave an alarming jerk, the circle revolving as it dislodged itself from the floor and began to ascend.

“What about the ice?” Clay asked Kriz, peering into the murky heights above.

“I suspect it’s partially melted,” she said. “However the exit is likely to still be submerged.”

“So we swim out?”

Kriz’s expression brought to mind Sigoral’s suspicions about her viewing them as little more than useful savages. “No,” she said after a moment. “We fly.”

They ascended for what seemed an age, the platform continuing to shake as fresh cascades of dust and grit fell all around. The shaft grew so dark that Sigoral and Loriabeth relit their lanterns, though, when they turned the beams upwards they failed to reveal the top of the shaft.

“This thing ever gonna stop?” Loriabeth wondered, the lantern swaying as she fought to maintain her balance. The beam alighted on Kriz for a second, Clay noting how her face seemed strangely free of alarm. Instead she wore a preoccupied frown, her hand clutching the crystal shard about her neck.

“What is that?” he asked, moving closer to touch the shard.

She stepped away, a sharp scowl of warning on her brow as she gave a terse reply, “Memory.”

The platform juddered and began to slow, the lanterns revealing a fast-approaching ceiling. It resembled the giant cog-like door on the exterior of the spire, revolving and sending yet more dust down upon them as it slid aside. A great rush of wind whipped around them, Clay feeling himself being partially lifted as air was sucked into the opening above.

“Another vacuum,” Sigoral shouted above the wind.

The wind died as the platform rose to fill the opening, leaving them standing in a large darkened chamber. The tremors continued unabated. If anything, Clay sensed an added violence to the shaking, his alarm increasing with every booming crack that echoed through the chamber. This place is coming down soon.

“There,” Kriz said as Loriabeth’s lantern beam caught the edge of a large curved shape several yards away. She started forward at a run, Clay and the others following.

“What in the Travail is that?” Loriabeth said as the lanterns revealed more of the shape, the massive elongated ball, the enclosed boat-shaped gondola beneath and the two propelling engines on either side.

“Aerostat,” Clay said in Kriz’s language which drew only a baffled glance. “A flying machine,” he explained. “Like a balloon, except you can steer it.”

“And where are we supposed to fly to?” Sigoral asked.

“To be honest, I ain’t too sure.”

A clanking sound came from the right, the lanterns swinging towards it to reveal Kriz’s slender form climbing into a hatch in the gondola. After a second her head poked out of the hatch, staring at them with stern impatience. “Well, come on then,” she said before disappearing back inside.

“Cuz . . .” Loriabeth began with evident unease, then fell silent as another tremor came close to tipping them from their feet.

“We’re all out of options, Lori,” Clay said, moving to the hatch. He clambered inside, finding Kriz standing before an array of levers and small wheels sprouting from a panel at the front of the gondola. The panel also featured several dials and Clay was surprised to find he could read a good portion of the symbols they displayed.

“‘Pressure low,’” he said, peering at the largest dial where the arrow-shaped indicator hovered over a red-coloured symbol. “What’s that mean?”

“It means we’re in for an eventful flight,” Kriz replied, her hands flying from one lever to another with automatic familiarity. “You best secure yourselves.” She jerked her head at the six seats arranged along both sides of the gondola’s interior, each rigged with straps.

“How do we get out?” he asked, lingering to peer through the window at the darkened chamber beyond. “Can’t see no door.”

Kriz’s hand darted out to touch a small crystal in the centre of the panel, which immediately lit up with a familiar chime. After a short delay a curving white line appeared in the gloom outside the window, expanding into a gap that flooded the chamber with light. Clay blinked moisture from his eyes at the sudden glare, then found himself squinting at the mountains they had traversed to get here.

Kriz spun a wheel which caused the arrow on the pressure dial to move away from the red symbol. Clay felt the gondola shift as it lifted from the floor, the widening gap outside tilting to and fro before Kriz took hold of the largest lever. She hauled it into a central position, the craft levelling out in response. “Go sit down,” she ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Clay nodded and started towards the seats then paused as he saw her expression change, the frown morphing into a surprised grimace. Clay followed her gaze, seeing the expanding light reveal the bulbous form of another aerostat thirty or so yards away.

“What is it?” he asked Kriz as she continued to stare at the craft.

“Only one other aerostat,” she said, turning back to the panel. “There were supposed to be two.”

She gestured impatiently at the seats where Sigoral and Loriabeth were already strapped in. Clay took the nearest seat and buckled on the straps, watching Kriz hesitate as her hand reached for two other levers, both placed in close proximity on the panel presumably so they could be pushed at the same time. She closed her eyes as her hand continued to hover, making Clay wonder at the true scale of the risk they were about to undertake. Whatever qualms she had were overcome when another boom sounded from outside, the loudest so far. Clay saw a large chunk of masonry tumble past the window, quickly followed by several more.

“I’m thinking it’s time to go!” he called to Kriz, who needed no further encouragement. As she pushed the two levers the aerostat lurched forward, Clay finding himself forced back into his seat by the acceleration. The gap beyond the window widened to fill his field of view, then they were out, the shadows vanished to leave them in the light of the three sun-crystals.

Clay’s surging relief evaporated when the aerostat promptly tilted forward into a steep dive. The mountain tops disappeared to be replaced by the sight of the rapidly approaching ground. “Kriz . . .” he said, voice suddenly reed thin. Sigoral and Loriabeth were more vocal, both issuing loud and, in Loriabeth’s case, profanity-laden cries as the aerostat plunged towards the earth.

Clay watched Kriz’s hands dance over the controls, pushing levers and spinning wheels with feverish energy. The aerostat’s descent slowed, much more gradually than Clay would have liked, but within a few seconds the mountain tops swung into view once more as the craft settled into a level flight.

“The envelope was only six-tenths full,” Kriz explained over her shoulder, pulling back on the central lever to gain altitude. “We’re at full capacity now.”

Clay unclamped his white-knuckled hands from the edge of his seat, breathing deep as he undid the straps. “So,” he said, moving to stand at her side. “What now?”

Kriz eased back the two levers that controlled their speed, the aerostat slowing to a lazy drift as the landscape revolved beneath them. Seeing it from this height, Clay was struck by the similarity to Kriz’s crystal model in the trance, the central hub of the mountains surrounded by the vast circle of the artificial sea and the outer ring of dense forest. Much as he longed to be gone from this place, the scale of ambition and achievement it represented was staggering. Kriz’s people had truly lived in an age of wonders.

The shaft swung into view and Kriz steadied the aerostat into a hover, keeping it in the centre of the window. “We wait,” she said, her gaze fixed on the great monolithic rectangle. It seemed to blur around the edges as the tremors continued to assail it, a growing plume of dust billowing from the opening through which they had made their escape.

“It’s stood for centuries,” Clay said. “And yet a few tremors can bring it down.”

“It’s not the tremors,” she said. “The outer shell and the shafts were constructed from a crystal-infused compound. The strongest building material ever created, but reliant on a continual energy source to maintain its integrity. The interruption in the flow of energy from the fault-line has fatally weakened the whole structure.”

“Clay!” Loriabeth called, voice flat with urgency. He turned to find her and Sigoral staring through the gondola’s port-side windows, both with weapons gripped. “Seer-dammit,” Clay cursed softly, moving to Loriabeth’s side and seeing the dark, rapidly approaching cloud.

“Gotta be a hundred or more,” Loriabeth said, hefting her repeating rifle.

“Does this thing have weapons?” Sigoral demanded of Kriz, who shook her head.

“We never thought we’d need them.”

“What tremendous foresight your people had, madam,” the Corvantine observed with a bitter sigh.

Kriz ignored the jibe and pushed the accelerating levers all the way forward, the shaft looming in the window as the aerostat lurched into motion. Kriz angled the large central lever so that the craft swung to the right, steering them around the shaft in a wide circle.

“They’re still gaining,” Loriabeth reported from the port-side window.

“We need to open the hatches,” Clay told Kriz. “Can’t shoot ’em otherwise,” he added when she hesitated. Kriz pulled another lever on the panel and the gondola’s hatches all opened at once. There were four in all, two at the front and two at the rear.

“Lieutenant, take the starboard side,” Clay told Sigoral, having to shout above the sudden torrent of invading air. “Lori, cover the rear.” He hefted his own carbine, taking up position at the forward port-side hatch.

He took a firm grip of the edge of the hatchway before leaning out to cast his gaze towards the rear of the aerostat. The pursuing drakes were spread out in a ragged, undulating line. Clay raised his carbine, using the miniature telescope on top to survey the drakes. They were mostly Reds but here and there he caught sight of a White, flying higher and faster than the others. He put the range at perhaps three hundred yards, which his cousin evidently took as a challenge.

From the rear hatch came the rapid thump of Loriabeth’s repeating rifle followed by the sight of a Red spiralling down from the pack, one of its wings flailing as it vainly tried to catch the air with the other. Her success, however, didn’t seem to deter the others and Clay soon gauged the intervening distance to have shrunk to under two hundred yards.

“Hold still, dammit,” he hissed, aiming the carbine one-handed at a White. He could see the animal’s hide through the scope, mottled and sickly like the others, but its wings were still strong and powerful enough to draw it closer with every beat. His first shot missed as the beast veered left, but his next two struck home on the White’s neck, producing two satisfying crimson plumes, although the animal barely seemed to slow. His subsequent attempts to put a bullet in its head proved fruitless as the White swung high and low, neck coiling as it seemed to discern his intent.

Clay cursed and withdrew from the hatch, casting about until he caught sight of Kriz’s bomb-throwing gun lying next to her pack. She held to the steering lever with both hands, maintaining a tight circular course around the still-trembling shaft.

“How much longer?” he asked, bending to retrieve the bomb-thrower.

“There’s no way to tell. A few minutes, perhaps.”

Clay studied the shaft for a second. The dust that bloomed from the opening was growing thicker all the time and chunks of masonry were cascading down its sides. He tore his gaze away and turned back to the hatch, pausing as she reached out to flip a brass switch on the bomb-thrower’s stock. “Safety catch,” she explained.

Poking his head outside, Clay found the White was no longer flying level with the aerostat. It had closed the distance to fifty yards and ascended, wings sweeping in mighty arcs before flaring and twisting its body in preparation for a dive that would bring it close enough to cast its flames at the gondola. The bomb-thrower bucked in Clay’s hands as he pulled the trigger, the bomb leaving a thin vapour trail through the air as it arced towards the White, passing within a few feet of its torso before exploding a good distance behind.

Although uninjured, the blast seemed to infuriate the White, its jaws opening to scream out a challenge as it folded its wings and began its dive. Clay fired again, the White twisting in the air to evade the projectile, streaking down like a huge pale arrow.

A burst of fire came from the rear hatch, Loriabeth unleashing a stream of bullets that lashed the White from neck to tail. It abandoned its dive, wings flaring and flames gouting from its mouth less than thirty yards away. At that range Clay couldn’t miss.

The bomb exploded in the White’s chest in a cloud of black smoke and vapourised flesh. Its wings folded up and it plummeted towards the earth, flames still pouring from its mouth.

“Well,” Clay said, fixing his gaze on the remaining mass of drakes. “That’s one.”

He could hear Sigoral’s carbine chattering from the other side of the gondola, meaning the drakes were attempting to assail them from both sides. The bulk of the pack was less than sixty yards off now, Reds weaving through the air to avoid Loriabeth’s bullets whilst the Whites flew above. Clay aimed for the densest part of the pack and fired off three bombs in quick succession, grunting in satisfaction at the trio of explosions that sent several Reds tumbling towards the ground. But still the rest came on.

“Clay!” Kriz called, her voice almost immediately drowned out by a loud roar, too vast and deep to be a drake’s cry. He swung himself back inside, finding Kriz staring at the shaft which now seemed to be wreathed in dust from summit to base.

“It’s happening,” she shouted above the roar, which he realised was the sound of the shaft breaking apart. “We need to close the hatches!”

He nodded, setting the bomb-thrower down and moving to the rear of the gondola. “Leave it, cuz,” he told a sweat-covered Loriabeth, teeth gritted as she unleashed another salvo at the encroaching drakes. She was so intent on her work he was obliged to clamp a hand on her shoulder and drag her back from the hatch. “Looks like we’re about to get out of here,” he explained in response to her aggrieved glare before turning to Sigoral. “Lieutenant, time for a cease-fire.”

Sigoral glanced over his shoulder, nodding as he lowered his carbine. The Red must have used the momentary distraction to latch onto the underside of the gondola, rearing up to thrust its head through the hatch just as Sigoral turned to face it. Clay dove forward as the beast’s jaw gaped wide. He caught the Corvantine about the waist, pulling him aside as flames cooked the air. Sigoral let out a scream as Clay bore him to the deck, high and childlike in the agony it conveyed, and mercifully swallowed by the rapid thud of Loriabeth’s repeating rifle. Clay looked up in time to see the headless Red tumbling free of the gondola before Kriz closed the hatches.

A fiery ache in Clay’s foot drew his gaze to the patch of flame eating at his boot and he spent several frantic seconds stamping it out. Looking up he saw Loriabeth clutching a writhing Sigoral, smoke rising from the ruined flesh around his right eye. Clay fumbled for his canteen of Green and held it to Sigoral’s mouth, forcing the liquid past his clenched teeth as he continued to struggle. He gradually calmed as the Green found its way down his throat, banishing much of his pain, a calm that was short-lived as Clay tipped the last of the canteen’s contents over his burns. Skaggerhill had once opined that Green could take the infection from burns but had only a marginal effect on the scars. Loriabeth held Sigoral tight as he thrashed, a torrent of what Clay assumed to be profanity issuing from his mouth in harsh Varsal.

“No way to talk in front of a lady, Lieutenant,” Loriabeth told him, continuing to hold on until the Corvantine’s shudders subsided.

Clay looked around, hearing a thunderous pounding assail the gondola’s hull. The drake were swarming the aerostat, Red after Red crowding the windows, clawing and biting to get at the meat inside.

Clay dragged his gaze away and helped Loriabeth get Sigoral into one of the seats, his cousin strapping him in before turning her attention to his wound. “Can you open it?” she asked, peering at the mottled flesh around his eye. Sigoral grunted and choked down on a scream as he forced his eyelids apart.

“Is . . . it there?” he rasped. “Can’t see . . . through it.”

“Looks whole,” Loriabeth said, sounding more confident than she looked. “Probably be fine in time. Just the glare of the flames.”

Clay left her to tend him and moved to the front of the gondola. “He’ll live,” he told Kriz.

She didn’t seem to hear, her gaze fixed on the shaft. The drakes hadn’t yet reached the front of the gondola and they had a clear view of the great structure’s final moments. The gondola appeared to be completely sealed so Clay watched the spectacle unfold in eerie silence. The whole structure gave a final shudder as a thick rain of shattered stone fell from above. Incredibly, it stayed upright for several seconds, swaying back and forth until another tremor sent it toppling over like the trunk of a giant, limbless tree, trailing dust as it fell. Clay moved closer to the window, watching the shaft slam down onto the mountains below, shattering along its length all the way to the shimmering flatness of the lake where it birthed two huge waves. Clay moved closer to the glass for a better look, fascinated by the sight of the waves sweeping across the distant shore, then reared back as a Red butted its head against the window.

The beast hissed at him, wings thumping in excitement as two of its companions landed close by.

“Don’t suppose this thing’s fire-proof?” Clay asked Kriz. She seemed oblivious to the drakes, staring upwards at the dark void left by the fallen shaft.

“Actually, it’s flame-resistant,” she replied softly. “But I don’t think that will be an issue.”

There was no warning of what happened next, no gradually increasing trickle, just a sudden vast torrent of water descending out of the sky in a white blur. A blast of displaced air hit the aerostat as the torrent struck the ground, clearing the drakes from the windows as they took flight in alarm.

Clay stepped close to the glass once more, watching the deluge swamp the mountains below before flooding the foot-hills and the forests where the strange monkeys made their home. Soon it had all vanished, the mountains, the lake with its matrix of roads, the desert and the forest all submerged in a matter of minutes by an ever-rising tide.

“This is the way out?” Clay asked Kriz, hearing the half-hysterical humour in his voice, which felt at odds with the sudden calm he felt. It all seemed like some huge joke now; her promises of escape, their pointless trek through this place of wonder and terror. A prolonged piece of theatre so they could watch it drown, and them along with it.

Kriz turned to him with a weak, apologetic shrug. “I never said it would be easy.”

CHAPTER 49

Lizanne

The Blood Cadre agent descended through the smoke, blazing away with a revolver in his left hand. Lizanne had time to notice that his right arm was missing, presumably lost in the bombardment, before lashing out with Black to sweep him out of the sky. He landed amidst a ruined gun-position a short way off, struggled to his feet then fell dead as Kraz put three bullets into his chest.

“Loses an arm and keeps on fighting,” he said in reluctant admiration.

“They know what fate awaits them,” Jelna replied, voice rich in righteous fury. It was clear to Lizanne she had been looking forward to this day for a very long time. “Even a cornered rat will fight.”

They had charged through the ruined wall at blurring speed, wreaking havoc on the scratch force of Imperial soldiery hastily assembled to cover the breach. The lingering pall of dust and drifting gunsmoke soon made the whole enterprise an exercise in confusion and unseen threats. One of their number had already fallen to a stray bullet and another had been cut down by a wounded Blood Cadre agent. Despite being pinned by a fallen chunk of masonry the fellow managed to cast forth a torrent of Red-born fire. Kraz set the agent’s head alight with his own Red and they left him to burn.

Ten minutes of confused fighting brought them to the Blue Maze where they found numerous Household troops fleeing across the ornamental bridges, whilst others flailed in the canal waters having been thrust aside by the crush.

“If I were given to believing in the old gods,” Jelna said, depressing the first three buttons on her Spider, “I think I’d be offering thanks just now.”

She sprinted forward and leapt, ascending in a high arc over a series of bridges, casting a wave of Red and Black down at each one in turn. Kraz leapt to join in, moving deeper into the maze, flames and human wreckage rising in his wake. Men burned and were blasted away, bodies tumbling into the canals, which soon began to run red. Seeing Hyran start forward, grimly determined to take part in the unfolding massacre, Lizanne reached out to restrain him.

“Leave the slaughter to the mob,” she told him, casting a pointed glance over her shoulder at the vanguard of the People’s Freedom Army now streaming through the wall. “We have an objective.”

They refreshed their product and she led him on through the Blue Maze, leaping high to avoid the main concentrations of fleeing troops and cutting down only those who tried to bar their way. These stalwarts were few in number, mainly officers or veteran sergeants unwilling to shirk their duty even now. But the panic of the rank and file told an inescapable truth no amount of dutiful courage could deny; the Corvantine Empire would fall this day.

Having traversed the maze, they sprinted through the ring of ornate temples to long-dead Emperors, making for the central palace complex. There were fewer troops this far into the Sanctum, most of the people they encountered being courtiers and chamberlains. Some reacted with outright terror at the sight of them, whilst others could only stand and stare, either in shock or fatalistic acceptance. Spying a familiar face, Lizanne came to a halt, Hyran sliding to her side amidst a cloud of displaced gravel.

They had reached the Horse Parade where the Household Cavalry once staged their equine displays for the Emperor’s pleasure. It was mostly empty now save for a few fleeing courtiers and one rather plump man who stood still and straight-backed, sweat shining on his bald pate as he faced towards the fast-approaching rebel tide.

“Chamberlain Yervantis,” Lizanne greeted him with a bow of appropriate depth.

“Miss Lethridge,” he replied in a surprisingly well-modulated tone, meeting her gaze. She noted that his evident resolve was undermined slightly by the need to blink the sweat from his eyes.

“It would have been better if you had found somewhere else to be today,” Lizanne told him.

He inclined his head. “Logic with which I find it hard to argue, madam.”

“I take it then that you are prepared to survive the empire’s fall?”

His gaze flicked towards the temples where Kraz and Jelna were enthusiastically destroying a band of die-hard troops. “I wasn’t aware that might be a possibility.”

Lizanne stepped closer to him, looping her arm through his and guiding him towards the palace. “All things are possible in the new republic, good sir. For example, were you to tell me where I might find Countess Sefka it will transpire that you have been a Brotherhood agent for years now, as my young friend here will be happy to attest.”

Countess Sefka had secluded herself on an artificial island in the centre of the Sanctum’s broad ornamental lake. Lizanne recalled strolling the lake-side with poor, deluded Emperor Caranis not so long ago and couldn’t suppress a pang of amused regret at the man’s inventive insanity. Sethamet’s Bane, she thought, judging the distance from the shore to the island. Returned to seek justice for the Guardians’ murdered servant. If he had lived he might actually have been useful.

“Surely it’s too far to jump,” Hyran said. “Even for you.”

She nodded and started to wade into the water. “Take Chamberlain Yervantis to the general,” she told Hyran, waving him back when he attempted to follow her. “I’m sure he has a wealth of intelligence to share.”

“But the countess . . .”

“Leave her to me.” Her voice held a note of implacable command that stopped him dead and she held his gaze until he retreated from the edge of the lake. “I’ll find you later,” she said, softening her tone and trying to quell the rising guilt at the trust she saw in his face. The task she had to perform here would not be easy.

It took a few minutes to swim to the island, a half-second burst of Green making it an easy matter. The island took the form of a domed temple of ancient design and was fashioned entirely from white marble. Various scenes from Corvantine history and legend were etched into the stone and Lizanne considered she would have found it a fascinating place on another occasion. Today she found the ostentatiousness of it somewhat aggravating, another example of how the Corvantine ruling class had indulged themselves whilst their beggared people grew to hate them more with every passing year.

She levered herself out of the water and onto the island’s flat outer surface, eyes scanning for enemies even though Yervantis had assured her the countess was unguarded. “Every Cadre agent in the Sanctum was dismissed this morning,” the portly chamberlain explained. “She just . . . sent them all away.”

Lizanne’s gaze settled on a slim figure seated on a plain marble bench beneath the temple dome. Countess Sefka failed to turn as Lizanne approached, even though she made no effort to conceal the sound of her steps. Fight, she thought, coming to a halt directly behind the soon-to-be-deposed head of the Regency Council. Fight me, you bitch!

“This must be a great day for you,” Countess Sefka said, failing to turn as Lizanne lingered at her back. Her tone was much as Lizanne remembered it, full of strident surety and uncoloured by the fear she had hoped for.

“Actually,” Lizanne replied, “I find it a singular disappointment.”

Sefka’s slim shoulders moved in a shrug. “Oh well. I had hoped to hear a few choice declarations. A final jibe or two. Were our positions reversed I assure you I would have rehearsed a speech.”

“You are not me. And I, much to my lasting pleasure, am not you.”

“No. I tried to save an empire, whilst you destroyed one.”

“That was never my mission.” Lizanne stepped closer, eyes fixed on the countess’s neck beneath her tied-up auburn hair. The skin was bare and unadorned, the so very fragile bones visible beneath the alabaster skin. “I should like to know,” she said, “did you kill Emperor Caranis yourself or leave it to one of your creatures?”

Sefka’s head moved in a small laugh. “Neither. He was certainly becoming more mad by the day, but I lacked the support needed for a successful coup. The Blood Imperial, however, decided to precipitate matters. The Emperor had resolved to kill him, you see, and all his precious Blood-blessed children. Apparently Caranis got wind of the silly old bastard’s plan to assassinate you upon your return from Scorazin. How was it, incidentally?”

“Improved immeasurably by its destruction.”

“I expect so. Anyway, it seems Kalasin was very keen to get his grubby hands on whatever you had dug out of that dung-heap. Caranis couldn’t risk any harm to Sethamet’s Bane, nor any revenge from the Blood Cadre. So he signed the purge order and went off for his nightly bath where the agent Kalasin had concealed in the ceiling stopped his heart with a gentle application of Black.”

“If you know all this why wasn’t Kalasin executed?”

“A simple matter of practicalities. The two Cadres that serve this empire are like conjoined twins that hate each other, forever trapped in conflict knowing all the while that if one dies so does the other, and then so does the empire.”

“Do you know where Kalasin is? An associate of mine is very keen to see him.”

“Spirited himself away the moment your rabble reached the suburbs, I expect. A rat always finds a hole to crawl into.”

Sefka slumped a little then, her only sign of weakness so far, raising a hand to her forehead before forcing herself once again into a pose of rigid elegance. “So, what is your intent, pray tell?” she asked, voice as calm as before. “Some prolonged torture before you hand me over to your radical friends? Or just a nice, tidy assassination? I do know an awful lot of ugly things about your Syndicate, after all. Things I’m sure you wouldn’t want heard in public.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lizanne sighed, tired of repeating this particular mantra. “Why do none of you understand how little any of your intrigues and your wars matter now? There is only one war that matters.”

“Oh yes, your monsters are coming to eat us, aren’t they?” Sefka gave a girlish giggle, swaying a little. Lizanne stepped forward, looking over the countess’s shoulder to see the small empty bottle that lay in her upturned hands. “Heard you sploshing about,” Sefka said, turning to her with a pouting grin, like a child caught in a minor transgression. “Sorry, but I couldn’t face the show trial. The torture I think I might have withstood, but not the trial . . .”

Lizanne grabbed Sefka about the shoulders, forcing her off the bench and onto her back. Sefka struggled feebly, groaning in annoyance as Lizanne held her down with a knee to her chest and pulled the Green vial from her Spider.

“No!” Sefka’s struggles became fiercer, jerking her head away as Lizanne pressed the vial to her lips. “Not fair! You won . . .”

Lizanne clamped a hand on Sefka’s face, forcing her mouth open then pouring the Green down her throat. Lizanne pushed the woman’s jaws together, pinching her nose to force her to swallow. She convulsed for a short while, Lizanne feeling her heart slow, the pulse fading almost to nothing before returning with a strong, poison-free thump.

Sefka stared up at her as Lizanne stood back. “You vicious, hateful bitch!” the countess hissed, eyes and voice alive with hate.

“I’ve never been vicious,” Lizanne replied, leaning closer to deliver a hard tap with her fore-knuckles to Sefka’s temple, leaving her unconscious on the floor. “But I will admit to hating you a great deal.”

She found a boat moored on the leeward side of the island. After rowing to shore Lizanne hefted Sefka’s body over her shoulder and made towards the ring of temples. Smoke was rising from the palace complex itself where, as she expected, the bulk of the People’s Freedom Army were busy ransacking the once-sacred seat of Imperial power. Consequently she enjoyed an uninterrupted journey to the temples, attracting little attention as there were plenty of others carrying wounded away for treatment. The bodies of Household troops and palace courtiers littered the ground whilst others had been used to decorate the many trees dotted about the palace grounds. Lizanne passed an acacia with branches sagging under the weight of dismembered body parts.

Victory is never glorious, Arberus had said and, for all his radical nonsense, she knew there was wisdom there too.

With so many riches to be had in the palaces the bare stone temples had so far attracted little attention from the mob save for some minor vandalism. She knew that would change in time, such a visible reminder of the Imperial pantomime would inevitably face destruction, but for now it provided a useful refuge.

The door to the tomb of Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh lay closed and locked on this occasion, but the lock was unable to resist a blast of Black. Lizanne kicked the part-ruined door aside and carried Sefka into the tomb, dumping her on the floor.

“Have you brought me a gift, love?”

He was much as she remembered him, standing stooped half in shadow, cane in hand and face veiled by slack grey hair.

“It’s more of a peace offering,” Lizanne replied. “A gesture of goodwill, you might say.”

“And what would you want with my goodwill?” Behind the grey veil she saw cracked lips sliding over yellow teeth in a hesitant parody of a smile. The tension in him was obvious in the way his bony hands rested on his cane, veins standing out and gnarled knuckles turning from red to pink. Unlike Sefka, he was far from accepting of his fate.

“Nothing,” Lizanne replied. “But you have information I require. Tell me what I want to know and you can have her”—she nudged Sefka’s limp form with her toe—“and I’ll allow you to escape through the passage-way concealed beneath this tomb.”

“What passage-way?”

Lizanne returned his smile with one of her own. “You wouldn’t have risked being seen coming here the night we met. Not with so many of Sefka’s people watching your movements. I expect Azireh had it built, somewhere to hide her treasure perhaps. She did hide something here besides that scroll didn’t she?”

Kalasin’s forced smile broadened, hair swaying as he gave a slight nod. “It transpired the Empress and I shared an interest in the Artisan, she being his contemporary. Upon achieving the throne she began to amass all the artifacts and documents she could, hiding them here in the hope that some worthy soul might discover them one day.”

Instead, it was you. Lizanne resisted the impulse to voice the thought. Let the old man talk. The more he talks the less potent the product in his veins.

“There was a vault where she kept it all,” the Blood Imperial went on. “I suppose that’s where my little hobby really started. Who knew it would lead to all this?”

“And the passage-way?”

“Built it meself, with a little help from my children. Took a long time but eventually I had a convenient means of getting about and beyond the Sanctum without being seen.”

“Which begs the question of why you linger here instead of making your escape.”

“Where the fuck d’you imagine I would go, love? Besides”—his hands twitched on the cane—“I was really hoping to see you again.”

He was quick but she was ready for him, unleashing her Black a fraction of a second after he lashed out with his. The competing waves of force met, birthing a thunder-clap that sent them both reeling. Kalasin proved the illusory nature of his infirmity by scrambling to his feet in an instant, whirling to face her with no sign of a stoop. But, spry as he was, he was still several decades Lizanne’s senior and it was clear to her he hadn’t faced combat with another Blood-blessed in years.

She injected a burst of Green and sprang aside as he summoned Red, casting out a stream of fire. Lizanne rolled across the dusty floor as the flames flashed overhead before sliding over the walls, then replied with a second burst of Black. He dodged, moving with speed that told of a heavy ingestion of Green, but was fractionally too slow. The force wave caught his shoulder, spinning him around to collide with the wall. Lizanne heard the dry crack of breaking bone as the old man rebounded, a shrill gasp escaping his lips.

Lizanne cast her remaining Black out like a whip, snaring Kalasin in an unseen vise, holding him in place as she got to her feet and moved towards him. “You’re out of practice,” she observed.

He snarled at her, all pretence of humanity vanished from a face now revealed in full. Seeing the deeply etched lines and liver-spotted skin of his hate-filled visage, Lizanne realised that he was far older than she first thought. “Excessive and prolonged use of Green,” she said, marvelling at the amount of product he must ingest on a daily basis, “is not a good idea, even for a Blood-blessed.”

Kalanis strained against his invisible bonds, spittle leaking over his age-cracked lips, an odour fouler than the Scorazin midden rising from his mouth.

“The countess said you intended to kill me on my return,” Lizanne went on. “And seize what I had worked so hard to retrieve. What were you going to do with him?”

The Blood Imperial said nothing, his ancient features hardening into a defiant mask. Lizanne summoned a small amount of Red, igniting the tip of one of his lank tendrils of hair, letting it curl up towards his face. “Unlike you I do not revel in cruelty,” she told him. “But do not imagine I will baulk at this. What were you going to do with the Tinkerer?”

Her Green-boosted hearing saved her, detecting the metallic scrape of the cross-bow’s lock just before the bolt was launched. She dropped, feeling the projectile flutter her hair before finding a target in the Blood Imperial’s forehead. He hung in the grip of her Black for a second, a small trickle of blood making its way from the embedded steel dart into his eyes, which blinked once before all light faded away.

Lizanne whirled, taking Kalasin’s body with her, swinging him around like a club as Anatol cast his cross-bow aside and charged from the tomb’s doorway, a large knife shining in his fist. The giant managed to cover only a yard before the Blood Imperial smashed him into Azireh’s sarcophagus with sufficient force to displace the lid, Lizanne hearing the multiple dry-wood crackle of shattered bones.

She loosed her hold on Kalasin’s corpse and drew her pistol, moving to stand over Anatol’s broken form. He glared up at her with a hate she knew to be far more justified than the Blood Imperial’s. This she had earned.

“I said I was sorry about Melina,” she told him.

“Sorry . . .” Anatol spat blood at her and tried vainly to stand, sinking back down with a shout of frustration. “What is . . . sorry to me? Or to . . . her?” he replied in a series of pain-filled grunts. “Sorry meant . . . shit in Scorazin. Means shit now.”

“Did the Electress send you or was this your idea?”

He angled his head at her, glowering and saying nothing.

“Promised you would get your chance when the Sanctum fell, I expect.” Lizanne bent and retrieved his knife from the floor. “Do you mind? I need to borrow this.”

Sefka came awake after a few hard slaps, blinking in grim realisation at the sight of Lizanne’s face. “Didn’t expect you to do this yourself,” she said, eyeing the knife in Lizanne’s hand. “I rather assumed you would hand me over to your rebel friends to play with.”

“Get up,” Lizanne told her. She went to the sarcophagus, standing on tip-toe to peer down at the contents. As expected there was no sign of Azireh’s bones, just a series of steps descending into deep gloom.

“You really are settling a lot of old scores today, aren’t you?” Sefka asked, Lizanne glancing over to see her peering at the Blood Imperial’s corpse. “I do wish I’d been awake for that.”

“It’s time for you to go, Countess,” Lizanne said, stepping back and nodding at the open sarcophagus. “I’m afraid you’ll probably have to do a fair bit of wandering about to find it, but I’m reliably informed there’s a passage down there that will take you beyond the walls.”

Sefka stared at her, unmoving. Lizanne doubted this woman was capable of such mundane emotions as surprise and her reaction was more likely a symptom of well-justified suspicion. “You’re just going to let me go?” she said, voice laden with doubt.

“Clan leader Ahnkrit and I reached an agreement regarding your future,” Lizanne told her. “You’ll find him at Scorazin. How or if you manage to get there is not my concern, but I’m sure it’s a task well within your capabilities.”

“Ahnkrit,” Sefka repeated softly, pursing her lips. “Mother used to beat me if I wasn’t kind to the other children at court. Now I see why.”

“A certain degree of urgency is required,” Lizanne said, her voice growing hard.

Sefka inclined her head then paused to crouch at the Blood Imperial’s side. “Good-bye, Kalasin,” she said, teasing the slack grey tendrils from his face. “It was a singular displeasure knowing you.” She tugged the cane from his stiff fingers and straightened. “You’ll allow me a souvenir, I hope,” she said to Lizanne, hefting the cane as she moved to the sarcophagus.

Lizanne said nothing and Sefka shrugged, hauling herself onto the edge of the marble box and swinging about. “You really should kill me, you know?” she said before slipping from sight.

Lizanne listened to her footsteps fade away before replying. “I know.”

The Blood Imperial’s head gave a soft thud as it landed on the steps of the Imperial palace. The Electress stood with her fleshy arms folded, regarding the grisly trophy in expressionless silence for some time. Her band of Fury body-guards stood behind her, all impressively festooned with jewellery and fine clothes looted from various palaces. Lizanne could see Tinkerer standing amongst them. She hadn’t been this close to him since Scorazin and saw that, whilst his clothing had changed from a besmirched set of miner’s overalls to a long, deep-pocketed coat, his demeanour hadn’t. He greeted her with a short nod as Lizanne met his gaze, face betraying neither fear nor anticipation at the prospect of release from the Electress’s clutches.

At the base of the steps Arberus looked on with what appeared to be the entire Co-respondent Brotherhood arrayed behind him in loose but attentive order. A large number of the army’s rank and file were also present, although most were too preoccupied with looting or vandalism to afford this meeting much attention. Arberus was flanked by Hyran and Kraz, with Jelna standing a short way off. Lizanne could see Makario loitering on the fringes of the Brotherhood and felt some measure of relief at finding him only lightly wounded, standing with his arm in a sling as he waved at her with his free hand.

“Anatol?” the Electress asked, glancing up from Kalasin’s bleached, sagging features.

“Sleeping in the Tomb of Emperor Azireh,” Lizanne replied. “I dosed him with Green, he should heal in time.”

“Unusually nice of you. Where’s Countess Sefka?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Lying bitch.”

Lizanne gave a bland smile and nodded at the object lying at Atalina’s feet. “Our contract is fulfilled. I require payment.”

The Electress replied with a smile of equal blandness, looking over her shoulder at Tinkerer. “His value’s gone up since. Those marvellous toys of his really do make a difference and I’d hazard that I’ll have more than a few battles to fight soon.”

“That is not my concern. And I have no inclination to bargain with you further.” Lizanne flexed her fingers over the Spider. “So I’ll make it very simple for you. Give him to me or I’ll kill you and take him.”

“In front of this army?” The Electress raised her heavy brows in mock surprise. “My army, love.”

“Really? You imagine it’s you they followed here.” Lizanne cast a pointed glance at Arberus. “Or do you imagine they don’t know the debt they owe Miss Blood? How do you think they’ll react when they find out you tried to assassinate me on this day of victory? Some will no doubt seek to avenge your death, but far from all and unless you have some Blood-blessed to call on at this juncture I’d say you have no more cards to play.”

Lizanne shifted her gaze to Tinkerer, raising her hand to beckon him from the midst of the Electress’s guards. He started forward after a moment’s hesitation, stopping when the Furies began to reach for their weapons.

“Leave it!” the Electress barked, her gaze still fixed on Lizanne. “Let him go.”

The Furies parted ranks, allowing Tinkerer to walk free. He moved towards Lizanne in a wide arc, well clear of Atalina’s reach.

“Any chance you might finally tell me why he’s so fucking important?” Atalina asked.

“He’s going to save the world.” Lizanne raised her gaze to the smoke rising from a large blaze in the palace roof, then lowered it to survey the corpse-littered grounds and the hordes of rebels rushing off with their bundles of loot as if worried someone might snatch it away. “Such as it is,” she added, inclining her head at the Electress and turning to descend the steps with Tinkerer in tow.

“I’ll escort you to the docks,” Arberus said as she paused at his side. He was unharmed but heavily besmirched from the battle, his uniform torn and stained with loyalist blood. Even so it seemed to her he had grown even taller now and, when future artists inevitably came to record this scene on canvas, he would be the principal subject.

“I think you had better stay here,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder at the Electress, still glowering away at the top of the steps. “Remind the new regime of its treaty obligations. They might feel they’ve scored a great victory, but all they’ve won is the right to stand against the White’s onslaught, and it is coming. Make sure they know that.”

She stepped closer, raising herself up to plant a kiss on his cheek, knowing it would be the last they ever shared. “Don’t let her live another night,” she whispered before stepping back.

“The Blood Imperial is dead,” she said, turning to Hyran and extending her hand. “Perhaps they’ll name you his replacement, though Blood Republican doesn’t scan so well.”

He ignored her hand and enfolded her in a tight embrace, murmuring, “Please stay.”

“I can’t.” She eased him back then turned to Makario, gesturing for him to follow as she led Tinkerer away.

“Where might we be going?” the musician asked, hurrying to catch up as she strode from the palace grounds.

“To the docks where we will take a ship to Feros,” she replied. “My father has an old pianola that hasn’t been played in years. And I believe I will require an accomplished musician to complete this mission.”

CHAPTER 50

Sirus

Katarias roared as Feros appeared through the drifting clouds below, an exultant blast of anticipation echoed by the huge flock of Reds filling the sky on either side. Sirus could see the waves roiling against the harbour wall in a white froth, driven by the three moons that provided ample light with which to view the city. It seemed so small at this height, just a cluster of pale blocks and dark lines fringing the wide bowl-shaped bay that formed the harbour. She must be sleeping somewhere down there, he thought as his gaze tracked to the bright wakes of the main assault force to the south. And I have come to rouse her to a nightmare.

Katarias angled his wings and began to slowly circle the isthmus below, the other Reds all following his lead. They maintained their current altitude lest any vigilant Protectorate sentry spot their approach, although Sirus thought it unlikely. Who would think to seek a threat from above this far north?

Transporting so many to within flying range of the Tyrell Islands had been a difficult and costly task. The animals clearly detested having to perch on barges and ships in such close proximity to so many Spoiled. During the voyage the White’s army had lost almost a hundred soldiers to sudden lunging bites or tail-strikes as drakes, both Red and Green, vented their irritation. The fleet moved in tight formation to lessen the chance of detection, their four captured Protectorate frigates in front followed by the civilian craft captured in Morsvale, each one towing at least two barges laden with Spoiled or drakes. Blues proceeded ahead of them in a broad mass covering several miles of ocean, reporting any sightings of enemy craft to the White. It had made a nest for itself atop the bridge of the Harbinger and seemed to take little interest in the intense activity all around, instead spending the voyage fussing over its clutch of juveniles.

Sirus was struck by how large the infant Whites had grown in a relatively short time, each one now possessing similar bulk to a full-grown Green. They had also begun to fly with greater regularity and soon adopted a favourite sport of swooping low over the fleet and selecting a meal at random from the close-packed ranks of Spoiled. Two or three of the beasts would descend on the unfortunate and pluck them from the deck of a barge or ship, sometimes tearing their prey apart in mid air and tossing the pieces to each other in an obscene game of catch. On other occasions they preferred to carry the victim back to their nest, stripping the flesh from the carcass in a frenzy before dismembering the skeleton. They would then weld the bones into the growing stack in the centre of their nest, coughing up bile to cement the remains in place. Sirus found he had to give full vent to his fear whenever this happened, lest his simmering rage boil high enough to draw the White’s gaze. Somehow the whole ghastly ritual was made worse by the absence of screams. The victim and onlooking Spoiled alike remained completely silent throughout every ordeal.

They had encountered two Protectorate vessels during the journey, one a small coal-burning patrol boat easily overwhelmed by the Blues. The second had been a much more formidable enemy, an old but fearsomely armed cruiser. The White communicated the sighting to Sirus, who immediately ordered the four frigates to increase speed, sending one on a north-westerly course and another north-east to catch the lumbering vessel in the event she tried to escape. The ship, named as the IPV Rate of Return by the elegant Mandinorian script embossed on her hull, obligingly hove to and reduced speed upon sighting the approach of two friendly vessels. However, some keen pair of eyes in her crow’s nest evidently spotted the White Drake perched atop the Harbinger. Sirens sounded the length of the cruiser and a full complement of heavy guns sprang to life, her paddles churning the sea white as she attempted to gain speed. Pity, Sirus thought as plummeting shells raised tall spires of water all around. It would have been nice to capture her.

Either due to hasty gunnery or sheer luck, none of the cruiser’s shells found a target. The Blues, suddenly loosed from their restraint by a command from the White, surged from the sea surrounding the Rate of Return, bathing her in flame from bow to stern. The old ship continued to fight on despite terrible damage, the repeating guns on her upper works claiming four Blues before she was finally borne under by sheer weight of drake flesh, leaving a slick of mingled blood and oil to mark her passing. Night followed soon after and they enjoyed an uninterrupted approach to the southern shore of Crowsloft Island.

Another Red swooped closer to Katarias as they continued to circle, Sirus seeing Katrya waving atop its back. He had wanted to leave her behind in deference to her condition but she reacted to the notion with violent defiance, keen as ever to do the White’s bidding. He had come to realise that her attitude was far from unique in the army. With every passing day this host of remade souls grew more willing to accept its lot. Some, especially the Islanders, continued to rage inwardly at their enslavement but the mood amongst the less recently converted was gradually subsiding into one of unreasoning loyalty. There were even some who seemed to rejoice in their inhuman state, mainly those of dull intellect or inherent cruelty.

Change and growth, Sirus remembered his father saying in one of his lectures to archaeology students at the Morsvale Museum. The two constants in the history of human civilisation. As our circumstances change, so do we, and we always prosper in the changing.

As Katarias swept round for the second time Sirus lowered his gaze to gauge the progress of the fleet. He could see the wakes of the frigates separating as they came within a mile of the bay where Morradin had promised a successful landing. Sirus sent the marshal a questioning thought pulse, receiving one of fierce anticipation in return.

The tide is high and not a corporate swine in sight, Morradin reported. The Greens will go ashore first. They’ll be raising an appropriate level of havoc in the outskirts of Feros in the space of a quarter hour. I’ll have the whole army off and advancing towards the isthmus in two hours.

No killing once the Protectorate forces have been dealt with, Sirus reminded him. We’ll need to make good our losses.

Tell that to the drakes, Morradin answered, his thoughts coloured by grim amusement. So many days at sea seems to have riled them a great deal. Can’t you feel it?

Sirus could indeed sense the blood-lust in the surrounding flock of Reds and knew it to be mirrored in the Greens and Blues below. It went beyond just the endless hunger of the natural predator, more a collective feral need shot through with a depth of enmity he might once have imagined beyond a non-human soul. Although their minds remained out of reach, his continual exposure to these creatures left him in no doubt that their mental faculties were far more developed than any naturalist had previously guessed. They do not think like us, but they do think. And they remember. He found he had to summon an upsurge of fear as the knowledge that Feros was about to suffer the full vengeance of the Arradsian drake brought Tekela’s face to mind. Please just sleep on, he implored her silently. Don’t wake up.

He saw the first fires appear in the northern suburbs a few minutes ahead of Morradin’s schedule, blossoming like bright yellow flowers in the dark earth. There would be screams, he knew, and gun-fire. Constables would be sounding the alarm and the Protectorate garrison roused from its slumber. Within minutes companies would be formed and sent towards the scene of chaos, away from the docks.

It’s time, he told Katarias, colouring the thought with an urgent sense of command the beast couldn’t fail to understand. A low, rattling growl emerged from the huge Red’s throat as he dipped his head and drew in his wings. They descended towards the harbour at a near-vertical angle. Only the strength of Sirus’s refashioned body enabled him to stay in place, so fierce was the air-current. He glanced back to ensure the other Reds were following, seeing them all streaking in Katarias’s wake, the flock dense enough to obscure the pale disc of Serphia beyond.

In accordance with the plan the flock split apart after descending to a point some five hundred feet above the docks. A dozen smaller flocks veered off to assault specific gun-positions whilst a dozen more made for the warships anchored within the harbour. Some repeating guns started up as the flock descended the final few hundred feet as shipboard gunners overcame their shock. The smaller guns growled as they cast glowing streams of bullets into the air, soon joined by the more percussive thump of the larger cannon. Sirus saw several drakes tumble into the harbour waters, but not enough to stem the onslaught.

Katarias banked low over the western mole, spewing flame at the sailors positioned atop it, lashing out with both tail and talon as he flared his wings and brought them down on the quayside. Sirus leapt clear of the drake’s back, war-club and knife in hand. He cut down a dazed Protectorate rifleman who stood staring at him with smoke rising from a half-melted face, then ducked as Katarias’s tail flashed overhead, scything into a squad emerging from a near by blockhouse. The tail spike cut one clean in half and left the other four slumped against the wall of the blockhouse, gaping in shock at the blood leaking from their gashed flesh.

The Red gave a brief squawk of triumph before turning about and launching itself from the quay, wings blurring as it sought the air. Another dozen Reds descended a heart-beat later, rolling over to deposit their riders on the dockside. Forest Spear landed close by, soon joined by Katrya and ten more Spoiled. They were hand-picked fighters, tribals, Islanders and former soldiers, all chosen for their battle prowess.

Before leading them from the docks Sirus cast his gaze over the harbour. The battle was far from over, rifle fire cracking continually, but most of the repeating guns had been silenced. Fires seemed to be raging on every ship and he saw burning men cast themselves from the decks whilst others attempted to make a stand. Officers hounded groups of riflemen into defensive knots only to suffer a blast of flame as Reds swooped down from above before rolling over to cast their Spoiled riders into the smoking confusion. Despite the apparent success of this attack Sirus also saw the truth in Veilmist’s calculations. Many wounded Spoiled and Reds thrashed in the water, the drakes crying out their death calls as they sank from view. In contrast Sirus felt the final moments of the Spoiled as a silent, sputtering scream.

They encountered a full platoon of Protectorate infantry a few streets from the harbour. They were led by a youthful, pale-faced officer who wasted precious seconds gaping at them in shock rather than ordering his men to open fire. Sirus drew his revolver and shot the officer dead as his chosen Spoiled tore into the troops, knives and war-clubs blurring. It was over in seconds, all but a handful of riflemen lying dead or close to it, the survivors casting their rifles aside as they pelted away in terror.

Just boys, Katrya observed, angling her head to inspect a young soldier who lay on his side, hands feebly attempting to gather his spilled intestines back into his belly. Sirus saw she was right, this fellow couldn’t have been much older than sixteen.

It seems the Protectorate is becoming desperate to fill its ranks, he commented, gathering his Spoiled and leading them on.

Bodes well for victory, Forest Spear added. Like Katrya his mind was perennially lacking in any suggestion of doubt or disloyalty, a common trait amongst the tribals.

The cacophony of multiple repeating guns firing at once erupted as they pressed deeper into the town, intersecting lines of flaming bullets arcing up into the sky. Sirus spied a gun emplacement on a near by roof-top, one of the heavy four-barrelled cannon. As he watched the gun loosed off a burst of fire, the shells streaking upwards to impact on a Red, blasting it apart.

Deal with it, he ordered Forest Spear, the tribal immediately charging off with five Spoiled in tow. Sirus didn’t wait to witness the gun’s destruction, instead making for a broad avenue that sloped up towards the Artisan’s Quarter. The army had plenty of minds with intimate knowledge of Feros and he knew this district was home to one Professor Graysen Lethridge, famed inventor and father of the equally famed Lizanne Lethridge, better known as Miss Blood, Defender of Carvenport.

They encountered numerous fleeing townsfolk upon entering the quarter. They appeared to be from the outlying neighbourhoods, many running past clad in night-clothes, eyes wild in panic. Most were so intent on flight they failed to register the fact that they were running towards greater danger. However, one woman stopped in midstride to stand pointing at the Spoiled, screaming out an incoherent warning that sent her fellow townsfolk scurrying in different directions.

Sirus could see Greens in the streets up ahead, either feasting on their kills or pursuing prey through alley and courtyard. Several fires were raging whilst the boom of artillery to the north indicated the lead elements of Morradin’s army were now engaging the Protectorate garrison.

Sirus found a pack of eight Greens feasting on a body at the wide door to a structure that was part workshop, part house. He could see a large bulbous shape of some kind above the edge of the roof-top, bobbing slightly in the wind. The Greens snarled at him as he drew nearer, then shrank back, revealing their prey as a thin woman of middling years in an ankle-length nightgown. A key lay next to her part-eaten hand, Sirus’s gaze tracking from it to the heavy padlock on the workshop door. The words “Lethridge and Tollermine Manufacturing Company” were emblazoned across the door in fresh white paint.

Sirus turned to the largest of the Greens, assuming it to be pack leader due to its size, and sent it a mental image of melting metal. The Green snarled again, lowering itself in preparation to lunge, as if pained by the intrusion into its mind. Sirus added an image of the White to the thought and the Green stopped snarling, huffing as it turned to the door, an action mimicked by its pack. They opened their jaws at the same instant, eight streams of fire lancing out to engulf the lock, continuing to breathe out flame until it had been transformed into a blob of dripping slag iron, the door smoking but not yet fully aflame.

At Sirus’s command the Greens quelled their flames and launched themselves at the door, shattering it and streaming through into the workshop with a chorus of hungry screams. He followed close behind, pausing at the sight of a large wooden scaffold in the centre of the workshop, his eye drawn upwards to a raised platform, whereupon he froze.

It wasn’t the sight of the moons through the missing roof or the huge elongated balloon that froze him, but rather the young woman in overalls standing on the edge of the platform and staring down at him in shocked recognition.

Tekela’s eyes were wide, her expression one of sheer amazement rather than dismay or, he saw with a pathetic flare of gratitude, disgust. He wanted to say something but found his mind suddenly void of all words. Instead it was there again, reborn and undeniable, that same all-encompassing devotion to this girl.

The Green pack leader leapt and latched onto the platform. Splinters flew as it started to claw its way up, followed by the rest of its pack. Sirus’s gaze went to Tekela, who, he noticed for the first time, was holding something. It was a squat object with a blocky base from which six narrow cylinders protruded, arranged in a circular cluster. A drum-shaped box was fixed to the side of the object’s base, which, Sirus saw, was throbbing rhythmically in the manner of an engine.

Sirus threw himself aside as Tekela lowered the object and the cylinders began to whir, belching out a flame a yard long and birthing a sound that seemed to rip the air apart. He had time to witness four of his Spoiled being torn apart as he fell, rolling away with all the strength and speed his monstrous form would allow. The sound died for a moment and he looked up to see Tekela adjusting her aim, lowering the device and firing again, moving the whirring barrels back and forth to sweep the Greens from the scaffold. They seemed to fall apart as the stream of bullets met them, scattering the remains across the workshop in bloody chunks.

Sirus watched in grim fascination as the bullet stream snaked towards him across the floor, raising a curtain of shattered stone. He tensed for a leap, knowing he wasn’t fast enough and, despite the compulsion to abide by the White’s will and survive, finding himself content to die at her hands.

The last bullet impacted an inch from his face and the miniature repeating gun fell silent. Sirus looked up to see Tekela lowering the weapon, smoke rising from the barrels. “Out of bullets,” she told him with a shrug.

“You always were a nasty little bitch!”

Katrya stepped from the doorway, her pistol raised, elongated teeth gleaming in a hungry smile. Sirus could feel it shining within her: a deep, joyous sense of triumph. He’s mine and you’re finally dead! I win! I . . .

The pistol jerked in his grip, the bullet shattering Katrya’s skull, silencing any dying thoughts she might have shared. He watched her fall, feeling the last fluttering of her mind fade like the ripples of a pond after the rain. She sighed, giving a final shudder as life left her. Two lives, he reminded himself, knowing that if his will were his own he would certainly have put the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger.

“Tekela!”

He returned his gaze to the platform where Tekela still stood, staring down at him. She turned at the sound of her name, looking up at a stocky man hanging from a rope ladder above her head. The ladder was suspended from what appeared to be a row-boat, itself attached to the elongated balloon by a complex net of ropes. Sirus saw another man in the boat, a tall fellow in a long coat busily fiddling with some form of engine fixed to the boat’s stern.

“Tekela!” the stocky man repeated, extending his hand.

She nodded, hefting the repeating gun and placing it in his outstretched hand before taking hold of the ladder. She started to climb up then stopped, turning back to Sirus. “Come with us,” she called to him.

“That thing is not . . .” the stocky man began then fell silent as Tekela turned a fierce glare on him.

“Please,” she said, beckoning to Sirus.

Sirus could feel the White’s will like a fire burning away his resolve. Whether it witnessed or even knew of this encounter didn’t matter. These people were valuable. He needed to capture them, or kill them if he couldn’t. Sirus summoned all the fear within him, unravelling every nightmare he could remember, reliving all those brushes with death, suffering again the attentions of the Cadre’s torturers. It was enough to keep him from raising his pistol. But only just.

“I . . . can’t!” he grated, spittle flying from between tight-clenched teeth. “You . . . go! Now!”

He saw a spasm of deep sorrow pass across her face before she resumed her climb.

“Where is Pendilla?” the tall man in the boat asked as Tekela clambered aboard.

“Dead,” she replied shortly.

The tall man stared at her for several seconds, face and body frozen until a pat to the arm from the stocky man set him in motion once more. He pushed the lever on the engine, which immediately coughed into life, a set of blades fixed to its side whirling into invisibility. Tekela and the stocky man cast a number of sandbags from the boat and the balloon rose.

Sirus found the White’s will diminished as the balloon ascended higher, removing all chance of preventing their escape. “Head north!” he called out, the strange contraption now reduced to toy-like proportions. “There will be fewer Reds there!”

Whether they heard him or not he couldn’t tell as the craft sailed from view.

Sirus cast a final glance at Katrya’s body before walking from the workshop, making for the docks where the babble of voices in his head told him there was more work to do.

CHAPTER 51

Clay

A lone White made a final, desperate attack as the waters rose to within a hundred feet of the roof. The three sun-crystals had slipped beneath the tide by now, their light dimmed but not extinguished, though they flickered continually. It made for a somewhat nightmarish spectacle as the White streaked towards them, skimming the water and spouting flame like a demon glimpsed in the chaos of a lightning storm. The flames swept over the gondola’s windows without apparent effect before the White crashed into the exterior, its claws leaving deep scars on the glass, which failed to break despite the fury of its assault. It continued to batter the gondola with claw, tail and flame as the waters rose ever higher. Finally, as the top of the aerostat met the roof and water began to lap at the lower edge of the windows, it collapsed in exhaustion, gasping out a final unheard shriek before slipping into the depths.

“This thing ain’t likely to leak is it?” Clay asked Kriz as the water crept higher over the glass.

“I’ve sealed the air-intakes,” she replied, eyes focused on the dials. “Hopefully we won’t be submerged long enough for it to matter.”

She waited until the water had completely covered the windows before pulling a lever on the side of the panel. A loud hissing sound came from above and the aerostat immediately began to sink, the view beyond the window transformed into a murky fog, thick with floating debris. Kriz started the engines and used the central lever to guide them towards a distant column of dense bubbles.

“We need to wait for the flow to stop,” she said.

“A craft that can fly and move below the waves,” Clay said, shaking his head as he peered at the flickering blue-grey haze outside. “Your people really were something.”

Kriz slowed the craft as they neared the column, waiting until the bubbles thinned then disappeared completely. “Hold on to something,” she said before taking a deep breath and reaching for the steering lever. She restarted the engines and retracted the steering lever to tilt the aerostat on its back at a sharp angle. Clay saw a dark, jagged shape slide into view above: the hole left by the shaft’s collapse. It grew larger as Kriz fed more power to the engines, taking them into the newly made portal.

The darkness closed in swiftly, leaving them in pitched darkness but for the faint glow of the small crystal above the panel. Clay began to worry that the passage might be closed, choked with fallen rubble, but then saw a small glimmer of light far above. It swelled as they rose higher, Clay’s relief swelling with it, then fading as the aerostat slowed to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Kriz, who was busy pushing her palm hard against the engine levers.

“The engines weren’t designed for this,” she said, sighing in frustration as her free hand moved to another, smaller lever at the base of the panel.

“What’s that?” Clay asked, seeing how her hand trembled.

“Rear main valve,” she said, still hesitating. “I can vent all the remaining helium at once, it might provide enough thrust to get us to the surface.”

“Might?”

The moist helplessness in her eyes told him all he needed to know about their chances. “Can’t stay here, that’s for sure,” he said, hauling himself forward. Reaching out he closed his hand over hers, placing it on the lever. “And I got no intention of going back.”

She gave a tight smile and nodded. “You better strap in,” she said, waiting until he had manoeuvred himself back into his seat and buckled on the straps.

“Best hold on tight back there!” he called to Loriabeth, glancing back to make sure she had secured herself and Sigoral. The lieutenant appeared to have fallen into a fever, either through shock or the lingering pain and sat slumped in his seat, the meagre light glistening on his burns. Clay watched Loriabeth fasten her own straps before turning back to Kriz. “Ready when you are.”

She took a firm grip on the steering lever then flipped the valve lever with a quick flick of her wrist. The effect was immediate, Clay finding himself pushed back into his seat by the force of the acceleration. The dark confines of the passage blurred as the aerostat sped through it, Kriz somehow managing to keep the craft on track as it veered about. Then they were out, the light that had been a distant glimmer broadening into a shimmering plane of blue.

The aerostat continued its rapid ascent, the blue shimmer filling the forward window then disappearing in an explosion of white as they broke the surface. Clay found himself floating in his straps as the aerostat reached the top of its arc, then felt a bone-jarring thump as it slammed back down onto the water. The force of the impact jerked Kriz off her feet, Clay reaching out to grab her arm as she tumbled towards the rear of the gondola.

The gondola bobbed on the surface for a second then slowly keeled over onto its port side. Water lapped at the starboard windows but for the moment the craft showed no sign of sinking and Clay found himself gaping at the clear blue sky above.

“That’s a welcome sight alright,” he whispered.

“Something’s out there.”

Clay twisted in his seat, finding that Loriabeth had unbuckled herself and was crouched atop one of the starboard windows, peering at the murk below. He heard it then, a faint high-pitched moaning from outside. It wasn’t one he had heard before but the pitch of it was dreadfully familiar.

“Blue,” he said. “We gotta get out. Now.”

Kriz slipped free of his grip and clambered towards the panel whilst Clay undid his straps and went to help Loriabeth with Sigoral. They carried him to the front of the gondola where Kriz waited at the hatch.

“You might want to brace yourselves,” she said before taking hold of the lever on the locking mechanism. The hatch tore itself free of her hand as soon as she turned the lever, Clay wincing in discomfort as all the air inside the gondola seemed to rush out at once, birthing an aching whistle in his ears. When it cleared he looked up to see Kriz clambering outside. He went next, climbing onto the outer hull then crouched and reaching back inside to grab hold of Sigoral’s arms. Some animation seemed to be returning to the Corvantine’s features and he grunted out a few short phrases in garbled Varsal as Clay and Kriz hauled him clear and set him down.

“Didn’t truly think I’d ever see it again,” Loriabeth said, poking her head through the hatch, eyes raised to the pale blue sky above.

Clay’s grin of agreement died at the sight of something cutting through the becalmed waters. It was a good distance off but still recognisable, and growing larger by the second. Hilemore was right, Clay decided as the huge spine of Last Look Jack drew closer. We didn’t kill the bastard after all.

“The bomb-thrower,” Clay said to Loriabeth, who promptly ducked back inside, returning a few seconds later with the chunky brass-and-steel weapon.

“You better take it,” Clay said, passing the weapon to Kriz. “Got more practice.”

Loriabeth retrieved the packs and the rest of the weapons before clambering out to join them on the hull. Clay looked around, seeing they were in some kind of channel perhaps a half-mile wide fringed by dense drifts of icebergs on either side.

“Cuz!” Loriabeth said, rifle trained on the fast-approaching spine. Clay moved to her side, reaching into his pack for a fresh carbine magazine.

“Sh . . .” Sigoral slurred, causing the gondola to rock as he attempted to rise.

“Settle down, Lieutenant,” Clay said, reaching out to calm him.

“Shhip!” Sigoral said, glaring at him with his one good eye and pointing. Clay followed his outstretched arm, at first unable to make out anything of interest amongst the backdrop of icebergs which seemed like just a jumble of angular shadows. Then he saw it, the long dark hull and tall masts of a sailing ship. Not just a ship, he realised, his eyes picking out the sight of people lining the rail. He raised his carbine and trained the optical sight on the ship’s rail, almost immediately alighting on the bearded, gaunt but still-familiar face of Captain Hilemore and, standing at his side, Uncle Braddon. They were waving with furious energy, breath steaming as they called out desperate warnings.

“Seer damn me to the Travail if that ain’t something to see,” Clay said, lowering the carbine.

“People you know?” Kriz asked.

“Family,” he said. But too far away to be any help. He returned his gaze to the front of the gondola, keen to keep an eye on Last Look Jack, but found the huge spine had vanished.

“Went under a coupla seconds ago,” Loriabeth reported, tracking the muzzle of her rifle across the water. “Gone too deep to make out.”

Clay spent a fruitless few moments scanning the water, a hard, chilly certainty gripping his guts. “Is there any way to move this . . .” he began just before the sea exploded.

There was a moment of weightlessness, as if he were floating in a rain-storm, then he realised they had been cast into the air. Through the cascading water he saw sunlight glitter on blue scales before it caught a gleam from something large and yellow, something shot through with red veins surrounding a black slit. Eye to eye with Last Look Jack, he thought, doubting he would ever get to tell the story.

His limbs flailed as he fell, slamming into the water with enough force to dislodge the carbine from his grip. Although the sea had been heated sufficiently to melt the ice, it was still shockingly cold, birthing an instant flare of pain in his chest and head that threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. He could see his companions struggling in the water near by whilst the gondola sank a short ways off. The craft raised itself up on one end before sinking from view, leaving a diminishing patch of foaming water to mark its passing.

The huge spine circled the four of them at an almost leisurely pace for a few seconds then, as if sensing the cold was about to rob him of his prize, the Blue reared up out of the ocean. It rose to at least twenty feet above the surface, though most of its bulk remained hidden from view. Jack began to open his jaws then jerked as something impacted on his skull, producing a bright plume of blood. The monster turned towards the ship, a rattling growl of irritation issuing from his throat. Clay could see a tall, familiar figure in the Crow’s Nest, raising his longrifle for another shot. Jack, however, didn’t betray any particular concern as he once again lowered his massive head towards his prey, jaws opening wide and the haze of new-born fire rising from his gullet.

If there was ever the right time, Clay thought, his hand going to the vials around his neck. Thumbing the stopper from the vial of Blue heart-blood, he raised it to his lips and drank.

CHAPTER 52

Sirus

Veilmist calculated the total death toll resulting from the capture of Feros as amounting to just over forty-five thousand people, plus eight hundred drakes, mostly Reds and Greens. Despite predictions, fighting had been fiercest and most costly north of the port where Morradin’s forces met with well-organised, often savage resistance. The Protectorate Commander had taken the ruthless, if undeniably correct, decision not to reinforce the city itself following the assault on the harbour. Instead he consolidated his remaining forces atop the surrounding hills from where his artillery could pound the attackers with relative impunity, much to Morradin’s delight. “Always more satisfying to defeat a commander who knows his business,” he stated with uncharacteristic cheerfulness the morning after the initial assault. “No sport in it otherwise.”

It required a complex assault by air and land over the course of two days to take the hills, a victory that yielded barely three hundred prisoners, and most of those wounded. Even then the fighting wasn’t over.

The Carvenport refugees used the time purchased by the Protectorate’s stand to construct a redoubt amidst their cluster of hovels. Commanded by a man named Cralmoor, and assisted by a small coterie of Blood-blessed, the makeshift fort managed to fight off a dozen assaults before being overrun by a massed charge of Greens. In the aftermath it became clear that this had been a delaying action designed to allow the refugees’ children to escape. A rag-tag fleet of fishing-boats and small steamers had set sail from a fishing-port a few miles up the coast whilst the battle raged. The White seemed indifferent to the escape of so many and the Blues were not sent in pursuit. Children were no use as soldiers after all.

More useful were the prisoners taken at the headquarters of the Ironship Syndicate, yielding numerous senior managers with heads full of valuable intelligence and two members of the Board itself. Of the three other Ironship Board members known to be in Feros during the attack, two had died in the fighting and the third committed suicide rather than face capture. He had been a large bearded man who somehow contrived to keep his pipe in his mouth even after blowing his brains out with a revolver.

In all the White’s army had lost over half its strength, losses that might have crippled a human force, but the surviving residents of Feros provided ample reinforcements. The conversion process was much more protracted than in the Isles. So many captives required days of close guarding before they could be forced to take their turn at the crystal. Riots and escape attempts were common, particularly amongst parents desperate to find their vanished children. Sirus had been assiduous in ensuring the slaughter of the infants took place far from the sight of the adults, aware such a spectacle might produce a riot no amount of cruelty could contain. Instead the children were crowded together in a valley beyond the northern hills and left for the sport of the drakes, the White’s dreadful brood taking particular delight in such easy prey.

Throughout it all Sirus kept a corner of his mind open for any report of a strange, balloon-like craft seen flying away from the city during the first attack. So far it seemed that if any Spoiled had witnessed such a thing the knowledge had died with them.

Come with us, she had said. Sirus believed this may have been the only occasion where she genuinely seemed to want his company.

The sight of Katrya’s slumped, lifeless corpse also lingered in his mind. Was I her Tekela? he wondered in quieter moments, thinking how much he wanted to claw his way into his own past and make a different future for both of them.

He was at the docks overseeing the conversion of the last few hundred captives when lookouts on the eastern shore reported the approach of a ship. Sirus began to order one of the patrolling frigates to intercept the intruder but stopped at a sudden command from the White. No, it told him, Sirus sensing an eager anticipation beneath the thought. It seemed that whatever was coming was expected.

He went to the outer mole and ordered the harbour door raised. The tide was low enough that it posed little danger but they had kept the door lowered since the city fell lest any escapees attempt to steal a ship. The White’s fleet now stood at fifteen frigates and six cruisers plus a number of smaller craft and several civilian freighters. They would all be very useful in the months ahead.

Sirus watched smoke rise on the eastern horizon as the ship steamed closer, his inhumanly keen eyes revealing her as a mid-sized two-paddle passenger liner. She seemed to him to be in a poor state of repair, the hull streaked with smoke and cast-off waste, a tangle of flags and ropes hanging from her single mast. The SSM Northern Star, he read as the ship came fully into view. A corporate vessel.

The liner steamed towards the harbour mouth at an excessive speed, forcing her to reverse paddles in order to make her way beneath the door. Sirus could make out the dim shape of the helmsman behind the besmirched glass of the wheel-house, but the only other passenger was a tall young woman standing on the fore-deck. He walked along the mole as the liner entered the harbour, keeping pace with her as she steamed towards the wharf. The young woman wore a ragged dress of some kind, torn and scorched in places to reveal much of her body, though she exhibited no sign of concern at her near nakedness. The woman’s gaze roamed the harbour and docks, a fierce expectant scrutiny on her face as she searched for something. Sirus saw the scrutiny turn to outright, unalloyed joy as a large shadow swept across the harbour.

As the White flared its wings and landed on the prow of the ship the young woman put her hands to her mouth, and Sirus saw tears streaming from her eyes. As if greeting a lost love, he thought. The liner’s engine died and the paddles stopped turning, a deep hush settling over the entire harbour so that Sirus could hear the woman’s whispered greeting to the White.

“You called to me . . .” she said, rushing towards the beast with her arms outstretched, “. . . and I answered.”

And the White spread its wings wide, raising its head to roar out a welcome of fire.