The Legion of Flame

  Hilemore watched the shadow glide towards the wall then flare its wings for a landing. A piercing scream sounded through the mist followed by a brief but fierce gout of flame. “It takes a brave man to deny the request of a Blood-blessed riding a drake,” Braddon commented. After a short delay the two lifting engines guttered into life and the door ahead of the Superior began its squealing rise.

  “Sir!”

  Hilemore turned at Steelfine’s shout, finding him pointing to a familiar shape resolving out of the fog, the Viable coming on at full auxiliary speed. “Man the guns, sir?” Steelfine asked as Hilemore started for the bridge.

  “I thought there wasn’t a man aboard with the heart to fire on us?” Hilemore asked.

  “Captain Trumane’s a forcefully persuasive fellow,” Steelfine replied. “And, to be honest, sir, there’s a few lads left aboard who’d gladly see us both dead.”

  “A lie, Number One?”

  “Thought you needed a little prod, sir.”

  Hilemore sighed and shook his head. “I won’t fire on my own ship, not that Trumane knows that. Load powder only, give us a smoke-screen.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The Superior had already begun to move by the time he got to the bridge, finding Talmant working the wheel with accustomed hands. “She’s a real beauty to handle, sir,” he said.

  “Good to know, Lieutenant. Keep her straight and true, if you please.” Hilemore went to the starboard gangway, watching the Viable close to within a hundred yards, her signal lamp blinking furiously: “‘Heave to. Prepare to be boarded.’”

  He saw with dismay that the forward pivot-gun was manned and in the process of being loaded, though not with the kind of urgency he would have expected. Perhaps the remaining crew liked him more than Steelfine thought. Nevertheless, the time for subtlety was over.

  He returned to the bridge, scanning the various instruments before he found the engine telegraph, though the lettering on its dial was completely indecipherable. “The red one for full ahead, sir,” Talmant said.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He pushed the lever to the red dial and waited. Ahead the door was at least ten yards short of being fully raised and the Viable was closing by the second. Come on, Chief, Hilemore prayed inwardly. It can’t be all that different.

  From outside came the flat boom of a cannon followed by the instantaneous whine of a shell slicing the air. The shot impacted a few yards to the right of the bow, a trifle too close for a warning shot. Either the pivot-gun crew had missed on purpose or they were worse shots than he remembered. Steelfine didn’t wait for the order, the Superior’s three starboard guns barking out a response in quick succession, the resultant smoke mingling with the lingering mist to craft an impenetrable fog.

  A shrill bell sounded from the engine telegraph, the dial swinging away and then back to the red portion of the dial. The Superior gave a now-familiar lurch, not as violent as that produced when the Viable’s blood-burner came on-line, but still enough to make him stagger. The Superior surged forward, sweeping through mist and cannon-smoke thick enough to momentarily obscure the door, but luckily Talmant proved capable of holding the course. They exited the harbour at fifteen knots, rapidly rising to twenty as Talmant steered them through the channel to the open sea.

  “Steer true south, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Keep her at full ahead until further notice.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hilemore went outside and slipped down the ladder to the deck, making his way aft where the Longrifles stood in vigilant expectation. They didn’t have long to wait. The great shadow of the Black rose from the misted channel and closed the distance to the ship with a few lazy beats of its wings. Hilemore heard a few near-hysterical shouts from the Corvantines and a hushed Dalcian prayer from Scrimshine as the drake flew closer. Lutharon spread his wings and landed on the aft deck with a skittering thump as his claws found the boards, folding his wings and crouching to allow Clay to climb down from his back.

  “Well,” he said, glancing around, “this tub’s hardly an improvement on the last one.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sirus

  It killed Simleon first, reaching out to enclose the boy in one of its claws before tearing him in half with a quick snap of its massive jaws. It tossed the pieces to the squalling clutch of infants scrabbling about near by. Their Spoiled captors had dragged Simleon from the ranks of prisoners and pushed him towards the White, using comparatively little force due to the boy’s placidity. He just trotted along obediently, shoulders slumped and head lowered. It seemed to Sirus as if Simleon had lost the last vestiges of himself in the sewers and all that remained was an empty shell awaiting execution. Sirus wanted him to scream and struggle, at least then there may be some scrap of sanity amongst all this horror. But Simleon hadn’t screamed. He just stood, not even looking up as the legendary beast dipped down to sniff him, issuing a faintly satisfied rumble. Katrya, unlike Simleon, had plenty of screams left in her. Sirus tried to shush her, fearing a silencing blow from their captors, but she kept wailing on. The Spoiled, however, seemed content to let her scream, Majack’s deformed features barely glancing down at them before returning his yellow-eyed gaze to the impossible beast that now ruled this city.

  The White had coiled itself around the statue of the Emperor Voranis occupying the centre of the plaza at the heart of the Imperial Ring. It should have been majestic in its size and evident power, like something stepped from the pages of myth. But the inescapable realness of the beast made it dreadful rather than awe-inspiring. There were scars on its hide in several places, and red veins could be seen pulsing in its wings as it wrapped them around the bronze effigy of long-dead Voranis. He had been the first of the Arakelin line to sit the throne, his bronze effigy now partly unrecognisable thanks to recent melting. The cause of the vandalism became apparent when Sirus saw the infant drakes casting their flames at it, wings fluttering and tails whipping as if engaged in a delightful new game. Those not preoccupied with turning the statue into slag were busy gathering up the many bones that littered the plaza, jaws laden with blackened sticks that had once been limbs and balls that had once been skulls. They appeared to be fashioning a stack from this ghastly detritus, fusing the bones in place with some kind of steaming bile heaved up from their stomachs. Sirus’s gaze swept the plaza, counting five completed stacks arranged in a circle around the White. Before vomiting, Sirus noticed most of the bones were too small to have been adult remains.

  There were about forty other captives in their party, presumably the last survivors to have been scoured from the ruins of Morsvale. Sirus was surprised to find so many, but the city had been large and its antiquated architecture provided many nooks and crannies where desperate souls might conceal themselves, but not, apparently, forever. The captives were greatly outnumbered by their captors, Sirus estimating that at least three thousand drakes had gathered in this plaza. As the captives were dragged through the silent crowd, arms bound, expecting death at any second, he noticed that many of the Spoiled were clad in the clothes of the townsfolk: soldiers, constables, servants and shopkeepers. Like Majack their faces were not so deformed as those clad in tribal garb, although they all shared the same expression of faintly interested scrutiny.

  The White spent a few moments watching the infants squabble over Simleon’s quickly diminishing remains then turned its gaze to the ragged line of kneeling captives. Katrya’s screams finally stopped as the beast’s eyes swept over them, choking into a final terrorised exhalation. Sirus wanted to look away but found himself captured by the White’s gaze. Its eyes were narrowed and its brows bunched in calculation and Sirus realised he had a yet deeper well of fear in him as the realisation hit home: This animal can think!

  The White’s gaze tracked across them all several times before halting to focus on one captive in particular, Sirus noting how its brows deepened as if in recognition. The captive was a small ma
n of at least fifty years of age, dressed in a filthy set of overalls typical of those who worked at the docks. He knelt with his head lowered, lips moving in a silent prayer. Sirus wondered if he was beseeching the Emperor’s divine intervention or, more likely given his age, casting his hopeless entreaties at one of the older, suppressed gods. In either case he had to know there was no prayer that would rescue him now.

  A low rumble issued from the White and two Spoiled immediately dragged the man to his feet. His prayers trailed off as they pushed him towards the White, whatever lingering faith he possessed replaced by abject terror as he stared up into the beast’s critical gaze. The White angled its head, its scrutiny deepening. The docker could only stand and tremble under the examination, Sirus noting how his bound hands spasmed at the small of his back, one of which, he saw, featured a pale circle in the otherwise olive-hued skin. A Blood-blessed, he realised, understanding how the man had managed to survive until now. But without product, a Blood-blessed was just another meal for their conquerer.

  Abruptly the White jerked its head back from the docker with a growl that contained a clearly discernible note of frustration. Whatever it had hoped to find in this unfortunate apparently wasn’t there to be found. Sirus finally looked away when the White’s claws closed on the fellow, talons piercing his torso like spears. From the resurgence of squawking from the infants it was clear they had been given a new toy to play with.

  When he looked again he saw that the White had uncoiled much of its bulk from the part-melted statue, revealing two objects that had previously been hidden by its wing. Sunlight glittered on two huge crystals about the size of a man, one green and one blue, both pulsing with some kind of inner light. Sirus found his gaze immediately caught by the pulsing, both the green and the blue crystal flaring and fading in steady, synchronised rhythm, oddly soothing in its ability to entice the eye. Sirus felt the sickening chill of his fear fade as he continued to stare at the crystals. The many aches and pains of his strained and part-starved body slipped away along with all sense of time. There was only the light, the wonderfully soothing light . . .

  “No!” He never knew where he found the strength or the will to look away, clamping his eyes shut and jerking his head to the side. The crystals’ gifts were intoxicating, and he longed for the absence of fear and pain, but some primal instinct screamed a warning in his mind: This is taking more than it gives!

  Strong hands clamped on his shoulders and head, forcing it forward, whilst implacable fingers prised his eyelids apart. Sirus tried to shout but the sound was muffled by the hands holding his jaw and he could only spout angry spittle as the Spoiled held him in place and let the crystals’ light flow into his mind. After only a few heart-beats, he found that the desire to look away had vanished.

  • • •

  . . . still sleeping. Probably dreaming about her again . . .

  Sirus groaned as Katrya’s voice banished the dregs of slumber, her tone more sullen and bitter than he remembered. He shifted, blinking rapidly as a confusion of images greeted his eyes. It took some time before he could make sense of what he saw. There were so many colours, as if he lay in a room bathed in light from a multitude of stained-glass windows. More blinking and things became marginally more comprehensible. The colours, just confused smudges at first, soon resolved into people. They were outlined in some kind of red haze, like the glow of a lantern, but still recognisably people. No, he corrected himself as their features came into focus. Not people. Spoiled.

  They lay or sat on a collection of beds or mattresses arranged in a loose order that resembled a barrack room, albeit one occupied by soldiers with scant regard for military order. The floor was littered with various refuse, from discarded bones to empty bottles. A closer look at the Spoiled brought an instant of sickening recognition. These were his fellow captives, though their faces now featured the same nascent deformities as Majack’s.

  Sirus fought down panic and reached up to place a tremulous hand along the new ridge of dome-like protrusions extending from the centre of his brows into his hair. They followed the line of his skull to the base of his neck where they grew yet larger, proceeding down his back in parallel to his vertebrae. A quick inspection of his face confirmed the presence of soft but scaled skin around his eyes and mouth. Had he a mirror he knew he would now be staring at the visage of a yellow-eyed monster.

  Isn’t so bad, Katrya said. Doesn’t hurt any more, at least.

  His gaze snapped towards Katrya, finding her sitting on the next bed, her face betraying the same deformities as the others. As he tried to overcome the shock provoked by her appearance another realisation came to him. She hadn’t spoken, and yet her words sang clear in his mind.

  He saw her scaled mouth twitch in faint amusement. Clever, isn’t it? Like magic or something. I think it, you hear it.

  Sirus recalled the silence of the Spoiled in the plaza, the way their captors had moved with a shared purpose despite not exchanging a word. The crystals, he thought, remembering the pulsing light, the way it had seemed to flow into him. They did this . . .

  That’s what I think too, Katrya agreed, smiling wider as he started.

  This . . . His hands came up to paw at his face, fingers exploring the scales and the ridge of bumps with fevered disgust. It’s horrible . . . I can’t . . .

  He got to his feet, casting about wildly for some kind of weapon, anything with a sharp edge capable of opening a vein. He spied a discarded bottle near by and snatched it up, raising it high to smash the glass. I will not be this!

  STOP!

  The command rang in his head like a bell, implacable and inescapable. He froze in place, the bottle slipping from suddenly numb fingers. It hadn’t been just one voice this time, though he heard Katrya’s in there amongst the multitude. Looking around their makeshift barracks, he saw the rest of the former captives all staring at him intently. He could feel their thoughts in his head like the low buzz of a disturbed beehive. Words began to form out of the buzz, jumbled for the most part but some leaping out with sufficient force of will to make him wince: . . . needed . . . He needs us . . . This one is smart . . . He will be valuable . . .

  More than the jumble of voices was the sense of something beneath it, something spurring them on, a will far greater than all of them combined.

  Sirus reeled under the onslaught and fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain. Then came a new sensation, something softer, kinder, subduing the commanding babble and its overwhelming accompaniment. Best if you don’t fight it. Katrya knelt to gently pull his hands away from his temples. Her slitted eyes met his and a fresh wave of sensation rushed forth. The voices faded to a whisper as a collage of images ran through his head.

  A small boy in a garden, seen through the eyes of someone whose head didn’t yet come level with an old sun-dial which the boy studied with complete attention. A small but insistent hand reached out to place a ball on the sun-dial, drawing an irritated scowl from the boy that soon softened into a smile, and then a laugh. The image shifted and Sirus saw the same boy, older now and glimpsed through a half-open doorway. He stood at stiff attention, fighting tears whilst his father harangued him for a lack of attention to his studies. Sirus could feel the sympathy that coloured this memory, the desire to comfort. The vision blurred again, swirling into something different, something tinged with a dark stain of hurt and jealousy. The boy is perhaps eighteen now, standing with head bowed in the garden of his house, stuttering through some poorly written verse as a bored girl with a doll’s face regards him with ill-concealed contempt. When the boy has finished his poem the girl simply rolls her eyes and walks away without a word . . .

  Sirus shuddered as the images faded and he found himself back in the warehouse, on his knees and staring into Katrya’s remade eyes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? her mind said. Now we can share everything.

  Sirus stifled the impulse to recoil, clamping down on the di
sgust and fear mingling in his breast. He could feel something in Katrya’s thoughts, beyond the affection she had hidden for so long and now felt no compunction in sharing. It was like touching a jagged bone shoved through sundered flesh. Something had been broken in Katrya, probably in all of them when the crystals’ light flooded in. Somehow it had reached inside them and snapped the cord of reason and humanity that should have made them hate this transformation. He had it too, he could feel it, a throbbing persistent desire to surrender to this new body with its marvellous gifts. Katrya no doubt had more memories to share, as did the others . . .

  You are needed. Sirus’s gaze snapped to the warehouse entrance, finding Majack regarding him in placid expectation. At the docks.

  • • •

  Sirus could sense no affection in Majack’s thoughts. In fact the soldier exuded little of anything beyond a blind sense of purpose as he led Sirus to the docks. Katrya followed along behind, skipping a little. Her thoughts conveyed a tone of childlike contentment that made Sirus wonder why such acceptance remained beyond him. They passed many fellow Spoiled on the way, all labouring to gather what provisions could be looted from the city into several great mounds along the approaches to the quayside. After a moment’s concentration Sirus found he could sense their purpose amongst the unspoken hum of shared thoughts. He commands that we prepare . . . The sea is broad and the way long . . .

  The sea is broad . . . Sirus felt his simmering fear rise a notch at what that might mean but the sight that greeted him at the docks banished further consideration. Spoiled were at work aboard every ship in the harbour, hauling cargo or repairing damage with a concentrated, near-feverish energy. But what commanded his attention most was the presence of the White, perched atop the deck of a large freighter moored directly ahead. His attention was concentrated even more by the fact that it was looking at him.