“Close the fucking door, love,” the Blood Imperial told her, speaking in Varsal, his accent coarse, aged and distinctly lacking in nobility. “And let’s get on with it, eh?”
CHAPTER 10
Sirus
Fire!
The volley crashed out in a single, jarring blast, each bullet fired at exactly the same instant. The targets, wooden man-shaped facsimiles positioned one hundred yards from the line of Spoiled marksmen, each received a simultaneous hit dead centre of the chest. Sirus watched the Spoiled reload their rifles with an uncanny, synchronised uniformity. At first their contingent of riflemen had consisted of former soldiers and constables, all possessed of an ingrained familiarity with fire-arms. Now their number had swollen to over six thousand and included Spoiled-born tribesfolk as well as converted townspeople. They fired as one, reloaded as one and marched as one, all guided by the expert, if often tortured mind of their new general.
Grand Marshal Morradin had reacted badly to his conversion, emitting a rising howl of rage and disgust as his fingers explored his remade features before launching himself at Sirus. The marshal’s large, vise-like hands came close to crushing Sirus’s windpipe before the collective will of the other Spoiled closed in. Sirus had seen the change in Morradin’s eyes as his hands slipped to his sides, the murderous intent drowned under a barrage of invading thoughts. But still he resisted, Sirus sensing a ball of rage and defiance simmering away at the core of his mind.
That is unwise, Marshal, Sirus warned him. He will expect complete obedience.
The marshal’s eyes flashed at him, the deadly promise shining clear and bright for a brief second before his rage subsided once again. Sirus felt the reservoir of defiance diminish further, subsiding into a fluttering spark, weak but not yet completely extinguished.
Very good, Sirus told Morradin. Now, it’s time for you to begin your task.
Thanks to his father’s influence Sirus had avoided conscription into the Imperial army, but his extensive historical knowledge told him that successfully training a body of soldiers required months, if not years. Grand Marshal Morradin, however, managed it in barely two days. The ability to convey orders directly without use of subordinates or messengers greatly accelerated all aspects of the process. The abilities of their most expert marksmen were instantly communicated to every soldier. The gunners allotted to their small collection of cannon had learned the art of gunnery from the sole artilleryman to survive the city’s fall. They all now also possessed deadly hand-to-hand combat skills thanks to the knowledge shared by the tribal warriors amongst them.
However laced with self-loathing it might be, Sirus could feel Morradin’s pride at what he had accomplished. They stood together on a raised dais overlooking the Morsvale garrison parade-ground, watching the mass of Spoiled soldiery perform a sequence of manoeuvres. They formed companies, squares and skirmish lines with a swiftness and precision that would have shamed even the Household Guards
An army to conquer a world, wouldn’t you say? Sirus asked him.
A flare of anger coloured the marshal’s reply along with a grudging if inescapable expert recognition of the power of what he had created in so short a time. Trained the Household Division myself, he mused. Years of drill, route marches and floggings. Made them the best three legions ever to march under an Imperial banner. But this . . . He waved a clawed hand at the unnaturally even ranks of the companies on the parade-ground, his scaled lips twisting into a mirthless grin. This is a kind of legion never seen before. A legion of flame, with which our monster-god will burn the world to cinders.
Sirus had initially tried to caution Morradin’s thoughts but soon gave it up as the White appeared utterly indifferent to their personal exchanges. Every task it demanded of them was done, swiftly and completely. If those it commanded chose to hate one another, so be it. Sirus often wondered at the level of their master’s ambivalence towards its slaves. Are we no more than useful beasts of burden? Does it look on us as we looked upon its kind?
Don’t flatter yourself, boy, Morradin growled in his mind. We’re lower than maggots to that thing.
And yet it needs us. Sirus nodded at the mass of troops as their ranks split apart then came together again in response to the marshal’s unspoken commands.
For now, Morradin replied. Makes you wonder what it’ll do with us when it’s done.
• • •
They launched the last barge two days later. The initial quota of fifty had been increased to a hundred, far more than necessary to transport their entire force. It’s expecting reinforcements, Morradin explained. The marshal was still on the parade-ground whilst Sirus now stood on the wharf watching his Spoiled work-force secure tow-lines from the ships to the barges. He had come to understand that the power enabling them to share their thoughts was not limited by distance, but the connection was stronger with some than others. Katrya’s mind was like an open box, every emotion and memory there for the taking. By contrast, Majack remained a largely blank vessel filled with the White’s purpose, as did most of the Spoiled, especially the tribesfolk. The memories of the native Arradsians were a best-avoided mélange of unfamiliar custom, violence and hardship. Strangely, despite their mutual antipathy, his strongest bond besides Katrya was with Morradin. It was as if dislike, or more truthfully, hatred, could breed as much closeness as love.
The marshal’s memories were a curious mix, blazing bright when they touched on his many victories, brighter still at the unfolding spectacle of slaughter. However, they dimmed whenever they turned to the personal. An arranged marriage to a woman he barely knew, who soon grew to despise him. The children they produced, a son and daughter, growing into disappointing, rarely acknowledged shadows of his greatness. Morradin’s cruel indifference to his children caused Sirus to wonder if his resentment of his own father had been entirely justified. He had been harsh at times, certainly, but when contrasted with this war-loving monster it became apparent to Sirus that his father had merely been a widowed man trying, in his own faltering way, to raise a son as best he could.
A loud and familiar cry sounded over the docks as the White came soaring out of the sky. A gaggle of Reds followed in its wake, led by the huge drake with the scarred face. Sirus had taken to calling this one Katarias, the darkest of the elder Corvantine gods. Legend had it that Katarias had ruled the whole world with depraved malice for a hundred years before his fellow gods cast him into the fire beneath the earth. This Katarias possessed all the cruelty of his divine namesake, having killed at least a dozen Spoiled in as many days, picking out the weak or infirm with a predator’s expert eye. Whereas the shared connection permitted some sense of the White’s mind, Katarias and the other drakes under its sway remained closed to Sirus and the other Spoiled. But, although he couldn’t hear his thoughts, the enmity with which Katarias viewed the formerly human inhabitants of this city was plain in its every, baleful glare and the evident glee it exhibited whenever it feasted on a meal chosen from amongst their ranks.
The White settled on the part-ruined building atop the harbour wall where it made its nest. The clutch of infant Whites screeched out a greeting as it landed amongst them, crowding round to nuzzle its flanks, wings flapping in excited adoration. The White enclosed them all in its wings, issuing a low growl of paternal affection. After a moment it moved back, glancing up at Katarias circling above. The Red obediently folded its wings and descended to deposit something in the nest, something with two legs and two arms that managed to issue a plaintive, hopeless scream before the infant Whites tore it to pieces.
Another unfortunate from Carvenport, Sirus decided. Or some wayward Contractor found in the Interior. He wondered if there was any significance in the fact that the infant Whites only ever fed on human prey. He had seen the other drakes feed on livestock as well as humans, but not the White’s brood.
It’s training them, Morradin told him. Making it so that’s all they’ll ever
want to eat. When we go forth from here, they’ll eat the whole world, boy.
• • •
Katrya came to him after dark, as had become her nightly ritual. Their couplings, performed in full view of the other Spoiled since privacy was a meaningless concept now, seemed an inevitable consequence of joining minds so deeply. As they coiled together he could feel those other Spoiled similarly occupied throughout the city, their lust mingling to make the experience ever more compulsive. He knew he should have been disgusted by this, repelled by the spines and scales that marked Katrya’s face and body, violated by the fact that every sensation was shared with so many others. But the intoxication of it was overwhelming, irresistible.
Did it made us like this for a reason? he pondered later as they lay entwined, finally spent, Katrya’s contented slumber a low hum in his mind. Something else to keep us bound to its will?
Katrya gave a faint moan of distress as his thoughts turned to Morradin’s words that day: They’ll eat the whole world. He had learned that sober reflection tended to mute the interest of the other Spoiled, the lack of emotion partially masking his thoughts. But draining his mind of feeling was never easy, especially when the marshal’s prediction led inevitably to thoughts of Tekela. He knew it was likely she had perished by now, if not during her flight from Morsvale then in Carvenport along with so many others. But a nagging sense of hope convinced him otherwise. She lived, somewhere beyond his sight, but not beyond the scope of the White’s ambition.
He drifted into his dreamless sleep picturing her face, as caustically indifferent as he remembered, but this time drenched in blood.
• • •
The reinforcements arrived the next afternoon, emerging from the jungle beyond the southern wall in their dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. More Spoiled-born summoned from the Interior. The disparate tribal origins were evident in the wide variety of clothing they wore. Some had feathers in their hair, whilst others had skin etched all over with decorative scars. They were all men and women of fighting age, Sirus finding not a single child or old one among their ranks. Touching their minds briefly brought an explanation: children trotting in the wake of silent and indifferent parents marching steadily north, cuffed or cut down when they became a hindrance. Soon all the children were left behind to fend for themselves. The White had no use for those too small to fight.
By nightfall the White’s horde had grown to ten thousand, rising to twenty come the following morning. Morradin absorbed them all into his army with typical efficiency and soon they were drilling with the same uniform precision as the others, though only about half possessed fire-arms. The fleet of ships and barges were loaded with provisions and ammunition, their cannon hauled aboard and every engine turned over in preparation for an imminent voyage. Sirus could feel the excited anticipation of the others, even sharing it to some extent though the prospect of what lay ahead stirred his dread in equal measure. He also sensed a change in Morradin’s mood, the self-recrimination lessening as the prospect of conflict loomed. For a man whose soul appeared to be stirred only by triumph in war, the coming tribulation was as irresistible as Sirus’s nightly surrenders to lust.
The White watched the preparations in silence until the last Spoiled had trooped aboard barge or ship, then raised its head and gave a vast cry. Its command spread through them all in an instant, the most powerful and implacable urge it had yet birthed in its horde of slaves: North.
CHAPTER 11
Lizanne
“What did that bitch Sefka tell you?” the Blood Imperial enquired, long-nailed fingers twitching on the curved head of his walking-stick. His entire bearing was that of an old man struggling to maintain posture despite a host of aches and pains. However, his eyes were bright and steady behind the veil of lank grey hair. “Said you should tell me to stuff it, didn’t she?”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Lizanne suggested, nodding at an alcove towards the rear of the tomb.
The Blood Imperial gave a faint huff before making a slow progress to the alcove, Lizanne casting a cautious glance at the door as the brass tip of his cane drew an echo from the flagstones.
“Nobody’s coming, love.” The old man sighed as he sank onto the narrow bench set into the alcove. “You can be sure of that.”
Lizanne perched herself on the edge of the plinth supporting Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh’s sarcophagus, taking a moment to scan the tomb’s interior in greater detail. “So, have you ever found it?” she asked. “The great treasure revealed only by Nelphia’s light.”
“Years ago,” he said, rubbing his knee. “Wasn’t really treasure. It was a scroll hidden in the lintel. Some of the letters are carved to a different depth, only becomes obvious when Nelphia’s at the right elevation. Took me years to work out the correct sequence to press. When I did, a scroll popped out of a hidden compartment. Clever old cow, Azireh.”
“What was on it?”
“A list, all the people she’d killed over the years. Not the executions, you understand, because Azireh was renowned for her mercy. No, this was all the noble shit-eaters and trouble-makers she’d had poisoned or arranged to fall victim to an unfortunate accident. It was a long list. I suppose it was some sort of confessional, unburdening her soul before making the final journey into godhood. Would’ve transformed our understanding of her reign completely, if I hadn’t burned it.”
“Why do that?”
She saw his mouth twitch behind the grey veil. “You met our Divine Emperor tonight. Mad as a Blue-addled monkey, isn’t he?”
Lizanne maintained a neutral tone as she replied, “He had some interesting notions to impart.”
“Let me guess, you’re some sort of holy incarnation sent to help him defeat Sethamet’s demon horde.” The Blood Imperial shook his head. “Every time he slips into this state his delusions get a little more complex, but at least they’re consistent. His father always said we should’ve drowned the little fucker, and he wasn’t exactly the straightest arrow in the quiver, either. It’s how it is in this empire, love. The mad and the inept become gods. It’s an absurd and ancient pantomime, and it works, but only if everyone stays in character. Azireh, the only woman ever to sit the throne, was a wise and magnanimous ruler who founded a dynasty that would one day produce our current beloved Caranis, and that’s how she’ll stay.”
Lizanne noted that his hands had stopped twitching, making her wonder as to the true state of his infirmity.
“You killed a lot of my best people,” he said. “The Blood Cadre is a bit like a family, there being so few of us, comparatively speaking. They look on me as a father of sorts, and many of my children want justice for their murdered brothers and sisters.”
“Killing in war isn’t murder,” Lizanne replied. “And I lost plenty of good people in Carvenport, if you want to compare butcher’s bills.”
“Oh, don’t mistake me.” He shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of his stick. “Been many a year since I took any of this stuff personally. Just a word of caution, not all my kiddies can be counted on to help in our endeavour.”
“And what exactly is our endeavour?”
“The defeat of the White Drake and its terrible minions, of course. With the help of the Mad Artisan, or whoever it was set down that marvellous design I sent to Director Bloskin. How is the old bastard, by the way? Still smoking too much?”
“Considerably. Since you sent the design, I assume you can point me to its creator.”
“Wish it were that simple. Got it by a roundabout route, y’see. Passed through a dozen hands before one of my kiddies chanced upon it when she was doing a little job for me up north. It was in a box of documents the former owner no longer had a use for. An investigation of tedious length eventually tracked it back to a retired member of the Imperial Constabulary who, after some gentle persuasion, explained that the design had been amongst a number of keepsakes he’d helped himself to during h
is last posting.”
“And where might that be?”
The Blood Imperial smiled, revealing oddly white teeth for a man of his age. “Scorazin, love. You’ll find whoever drew it in Scorazin.”
She stared at him for a long moment, watching his smile fade and eyes narrow in expectation.
“You expect me to infiltrate the Emperor’s prison city,” she said.
“Indeed I do.”
“You have your own agents. Use them.”
“Already tried it. Sent my two best. The first one lasted three days, the second managed four. You may not have heard, but Scorazin isn’t a very nice place and getting product through the gates is practically impossible. But, if anyone can get in there and find the Artisan, it’s you. Why else d’you imagine I sent the design to Bloskin?”
“I’ll have the Emperor scour the place. He’ll do anything for Sethamet’s Bane, after all.”
“Won’t work, love. It’s fair odds he’ll have returned to sanity by the morning and won’t even remember meeting you. Even if he hasn’t, you must have realised by now that not everyone in this court shares my desire to preserve the current state of affairs. Countess Sefka’s been plotting my downfall ever since she took control of the Cadre, and she isn’t alone. Certain long-standing interests don’t like a gutter-born upstart like me having so much influence over the Emperor. Nor do they appreciate so much power resting in the hands of a Blood-blessed. They’d much prefer it if we went back to being the slaves of the elite, and that I won’t have. You might persuade Caranis to tear Scorazin apart in order to find the Artisan, but would he even be findable amidst so much chaos? Besides which, it’ll be a clear signal to Sefka and her cronies that something of great value to me resides in that city, intelligence I’ve so far managed to keep from her. No, my dear Miss Lethridge. You want the Artisan, you’ll have to go in there and get him.”