It was the snap of the beast’s wings that saved her, reaching her ears barely a second before it attacked and giving her enough time to lurch back from the hatch. The Red’s jaws thrust through the opening and came together less than six inches from Lizanne’s flailing foot. The Firefly shuddered and went into a spiralling descent as the Red latched its claws onto the gondola’s hull. Lizanne had time to register the fact that it was the largest Red she had ever seen, matching the size of an adult Black. Its eyes were bright with hate above the snout, jaws widening and throat rattling as it summoned its flames.
The continuing spin forced Lizanne to clamp a hand to the support strut as she aimed the Smoker one-handed at the beast’s eyes and fired. Blood and scales erupted as the explosive round impacted, the snout vanishing from the hatch. From outside came a shrieking roar of pain and rage, followed by a chorus of answering shrieks. There’s more than one, Lizanne concluded.
Hearing a pained exclamation from the pilot’s seat, she rushed forward, finding Tekela clamping a gloved hand on her neck. “Let me see,” she said, pulling the hand away to reveal the blackish, reddened welt of un-Blessed skin subjected to undiluted drake blood. Lizanne reached for the satchel containing their reserves of product, extracting a vial of Green and emptying the contents over the burn. Tekela let out a strangled yell, shuddering in her seat.
“Can you still fly this thing?” Lizanne asked her.
Tekela took in a series of ragged breaths before straightening, flexing her fingers to banish the shudder then gripping the control lever. “I can fly,” she said, voice hoarse but steady.
“Due south,” Lizanne told her, moving back to the hatch and chambering another round. Peering out she saw that the huge Red’s attack had forced them back down into the clouds, making observation difficult. As the Firefly angled itself southwards a glance to the rear revealed at least six dark shapes, wings sweeping in rapid beats as they drew closer.
“Light the blood-burner,” she told Morva, turning to find her clutching the ignition tube with both hands, eyes wide and unseeing and face a frozen pale mask. She stirred when Lizanne reached out to deliver a hard shove to the side of her head, blinking and looking around as if waking from a nightmare. “Light the blood-burner,” Lizanne repeated in emphatic and deliberate tones.
Morva stared at her for a second then nodded and put her eye to the tube, depressing the forefinger button on her Spider. The thermoplasmic engine came on-line a split-second later, Lizanne bracing herself in the hatch against the sudden acceleration. Turning her gaze to the rear once more, she saw that one of the pursuing drakes had drawn close enough for her to make out the bloody, smoking wound on the side of its head. As the Firefly began to draw away, the drake worked its wings with furious energy to match their speed, spewing flame in copious blasts that fell just short of the aerostat’s tail rudder. The huge Red let out another shrieking roar as the Firefly’s speed increased, leaving it behind to be swallowed by the clouds, although Lizanne could still hear its roar for what seemed a very long time.
“One hundred and thirty miles an hour,” Tekela reported from the pilot’s seat, voice strained with forced humour. “A record.”
Lizanne closed the hatch and made her way forward, extracting another vial of Green from the satchel. “Drink this,” she said, handing it to Tekela, whose face was now grey with suppressed pain. She didn’t argue, tipping the entire contents of the vial down her throat and letting out a groan of relief. Lizanne checked her burn, finding the blackening gone but a raw, puckered scar some three inches long remained that no amount of Green could banish.
“It’s alright,” Tekela said with a weary smile. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
Lizanne squeezed her shoulder and returned to Morva, pushing the Smoker into her trembling hands. “Take this,” Lizanne said. “Keep watch. I need to trance again.”
“I . . .” Morva said. “I never saw one . . . Not a real one . . .”
“It’s always a bracing experience,” Lizanne agreed. “Inject some Green. It’ll steady your hands.”
She settled back into the rear seat and injected Blue, slipping instantly into the trance. Sofiya’s mindscape took a few minutes to appear, Lizanne noting that the redness of the sky had deepened considerably.
Captain Trumane has just ordered the attack run, Sofiya informed Lizanne, an oddly serene smile on her lips.
We were intercepted, Lizanne told her. Reds. Tell the captain to abort the mission.
Sofiya pursed her lips in momentary consideration, then shook her head. No, I don’t think I’ll do that.
The White will be alerted. Lizanne added a forceful, commanding resonance to her thoughts. And we can no longer provide warning of any Blues. Abort the mission, Sofiya.
The other woman replied with a small, apologetic smile. I’m sorry, Miss Lethridge, but I don’t recall signing a contract with you. My contract is with the Ironship Maritime Protectorate, a body which, to all intents and purposes, no longer exists. I believe that makes me effectively a free agent. Excuse me, but I must bid you farewell for now. I really don’t want to miss the show.
SOFIYA!
But she was gone, Lizanne’s shouted thoughts vanishing into the void left by her absent mindscape. “Seer damn her to the Travail!” she fumed upon exiting the trance.
“Something wrong?” Morva asked. She stood at the rear port-hole, Lizanne taking some comfort from the fact that the woman’s hands no longer shook as she held the carbine.
Lizanne looked through the rear portal at the vortex of disturbed vapour coiling in the Firefly’s slip-stream. Turning back to resume the fight with the Reds was the courageous thing to do, another chapter to add to the legend of Miss Blood, a legend she had already made the mistake of believing. “Yes,” she said. “But nothing we can do anything about.”
CHAPTER 27
Sirus
“Seer damn that bitch!” Catheline’s fury chased him all the way to the docks, her seething frustration at the Lethridge woman’s escape a constant ache in his head. “She must be here for something. Find out what it is.”
Any consideration of shared intimacy had vanished and Sirus had been swiftly dispatched to the harbour to put their defences on alert whilst the White sent every Red in its thrall to scour the skies for the aerostat. Despite the continuing ache of Catheline’s anger, Sirus had carefully examined Katarias’s shared memory, fixating on one particular image: a young woman seated at the front of the gondola, doll-like face turned to regard the sight of the drake as it attempted to flood the craft with flame. It was no more than a glimpse captured in the instant before a bright flash of agony had seen the Red cast out from the aerostat, thrashing in rage and smelling the stench of its own burnt flesh.
Tekela. She’s still alive. He cloaked the knowledge with a flare of genuine fear. The thought of what Catheline might do should she discover these particular memories was truly terrifying.
The security contingent atop the harbour wall was at full strength by the time he arrived, Sirus having already roused the near by garrisons with a thought-command. Forest Spear had charge of the contingent and Sirus joined him on the roof of the old lighthouse that stood to the left of the harbour door.
“Anything?” Sirus asked, speaking in Varsal in deference to the tribal’s linguistic preferences.
“Nothing,” Forest Spear replied. “But the Blues seem agitated.”
It was a two-moon night and the tide was high, the sea only a dozen feet from the top of the wall. The water displayed deceptive calm apart from a disturbance a few hundred yards out, Sirus recognising the signature splashes of a Blue pack. He sent out queries to the look-outs they had posted amongst the ruins of the island forts and received successive negative responses until the most southerly fort reported a ship on the horizon.
Just one vessel, Sirus told Catheline, conveying the image of the fast-moving frigat
e. A warship, and a blood-burner.
Why would they send only one ship? she asked.
Reconnaissance most likely. If it doesn’t turn away it will be in range of our cannon in four minutes. Or the Blues could deal with it.
There’s no point risking them for only one ship. Blast it out of the water then return to me. I should like a distraction from this most irksome night.
Sirus sent a pulse of agreement and raised a spy-glass. The frigate was close enough for him to make it out now, the white crest below the prow broadening on either side as the paddles churned the sea. Sirus had seen fast blood-burners before but this one was the most impressive, coming on at a rate of knots beyond his experience. Also, she showed no sign of veering off. He began to send a command to the cannon batteries atop the wall to prepare to fire, then saw a bright orange plume erupt on the frigate’s fore-deck.
“She’s firing,” Forest Spear said.
“Pointless at this range,” Sirus mused, puzzled by the bright flaming track the projectile painted across the darkened sky. Cannon shells often left a trail of smoke to describe their trajectory but it was only discernible after the shell had impacted on its target. By contrast Sirus was able to track the progress of this shell, if that’s what it was, as it ascended to at least a thousand feet in height before commencing a downward plunge. The fiery trail died as it descended but not before Sirus was able to make out a long, pointed shape plummeting down with arrow-like straightness towards the harbour door.
The warning he sent out to the Spoiled on either side of the door came too late, every one within twenty feet of the impact died instantly. The explosion sent Sirus and Forest Spear flying from the lighthouse roof. As he careened through the air Sirus managed to take in the sight of the huge spout of water just in front of the western side of the door, resembling an inverted waterfall as it rose high above. He landed amid a hard rain of falling sea-water, Forest Spear grunting as he came down a few feet away.
They both scrambled to their feet and rushed towards the door, then reared back as the walkway to the left of the lighthouse crumbled and collapsed into a white torrent of water. The western casement holding the harbour door in place had vanished and the door itself blasted aside. The force of the two-moon tide soon tore the door away completely before sweeping on into the harbour.
The ships . . . Sirus thought, watching the harbour waters rise, taking the vessels with them as they deluged the quayside and the warehouses beyond. The inrushing tide didn’t stop there, swallowing the mercantile district north of the docks, the ships it carried adding to the destruction as their iron hulls tore buildings into flotsam. He could see bodies amongst the surging fury of the flood, thousands of bodies, all Spoiled and all screaming in confusion in his mind before they blinked into the void.
* * *
• • •
“I’m sorry,” Catheline said, red-black eyes downcast and face tense with genuine regret. Then she sent a bolt of purest agony into Sirus’s mind.
He was no stranger to torture and had considered the torments visited upon him by the Imperial Cadre to be the worst pain he was ever likely to endure. He had been wrong. His body bent taut like a bow, jaws clamped together so tight he couldn’t even scream as he convulsed. His mind fragmented under the weight of agony, rationality disappearing into a jumbled haze of discordant memory, glimpsed only for an instant before the pain took them away. There was one image he managed to hold on to longer than the others. Tekela’s face . . . The scorn she had shown him in Morsvale, the pity in Feros and the fear as she looked upon Katarias. Her face became his saviour, like the wreckage he had clung to after the battle with the Ironship cruiser, a single point of comfort in the storm of pain.
When it ended he found himself lying on the floor of Catheline’s ball-room, one-half of his face damp from the drool that had gushed from his lips. The relief was almost like pain in itself, being such a jarring contrast to what he had just endured, and he found he had to choke down a scream.
“Even if we could refloat the ships,” he heard Morradin say, “without a working harbour Subarisk is useless as a port.”
“Tell me, at least, that you caught that fucking ship,” Catheline said.
“The Blues gave chase but she was so confounded fast.” Morradin’s voice was controlled but possessed of a wary tone, as if expecting his own bout of punishment at any second. “The Blues tracked it south for a time but it seems they can’t swim faster than a blood-burner, at least not this one.”
Catheline let out a sigh of exasperation. “How can just one shell from one ship destroy an entire city?”
“It wasn’t a shell,” Sirus said, grimacing as he got to his feet. “It was a rocket.”
The council of war were standing a few feet away, each one maintaining a carefully neutral visage, except for Catheline, who offered him a brief, relieved smile.
He wanted to feed you to his brood, she said in his mind. I persuaded him otherwise, told him you were still our best hope for victory. Don’t prove me a liar, General.
“A rocket?” Morradin said, heavy brows bunched in doubt. “Never seen one with that kind of range or that kind of punch.”
“Clearly, this one is something new,” Sirus replied, straightening his tunic and moving to Catheline’s side. “Launched out of range of our guns during a two-moon tide. And not aimed at the harbour door itself but the sea just in front of it. Water has a strange effect on explosions, at depth the pressure greatly magnifies their power. Even a comparatively small amount of explosive would have achieved the same result provided it was placed with sufficient accuracy.” He paused, scaled brows raised in reluctant admiration. “Miss Lethridge is either very clever or has some very clever friends.”
He turned his gaze to Veilmist. “Casualties?”
“Twenty thousand, six hundred and forty-two Spoiled dead,” she replied, prompt as ever. “Plus five thousand two hundred captives who hadn’t yet been converted. Also”—she shot a guarded look at Catheline—“two hundred and twenty-three Greens and eighteen Reds.”
So few? Sirus thought, masking his regret with fear. “The fleet?” he asked instead.
“We have five ships in working order, only one a warship.”
Sirus looked at Morradin, who kept his face rigid although their shared minds reached the same conclusion. “So, an invasion of Varestia is now impossible,” Catheline said, reading their thoughts.
“Not for several months,” Sirus replied. “At least not by sea. There is one alternative.”
“A land invasion,” Morradin elaborated. “We march overland to the Varestian Peninsular. There are numerous towns and villages en route where more recruits can be harvested.”
“What’s to stop our enemies simply sailing away?” Catheline enquired.
“We can assume the Varestians will stay and defend their homeland,” Sirus said. “And since it seems clear that Miss Lethridge is now allied with them, so will she.”
“You assume a great deal, General.”
“With Varestia in our hands we will have all the ships we’ll need. Enough ships to carry this army to every corner of the world.”
Catheline fell silent, her face taking on the unfocused blankness that told of communion with the White. From outside came a roar, rich in frustration and loud enough to shake the windows. Catheline began to tremble as the roar descended into a low growl that persisted for some time. Eventually it faded and she let out a gasp, falling to her knees, shuddering. Sirus crouched at her side, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, feeling the flesh tremble beneath her shawl.
“We . . .” she began, voice faltering into a cough. Catheline swallowed and spoke on, “We have leave to march on Varestia, but He wishes to educate our army first.”
Sirus’s gaze snapped to Morradin as the marshal let out a strangled yell and collapsed to the floor, swiftly followed by Veilmi
st, Forest Spear and the other Spoiled present. Only Sirus and Catheline remained immune. From beyond the windows came a strange murmuration, the massed discordant chorus of thousands of souls thrashing in pain but unable to scream. Sirus moved to the window, knowing what he would see. He could feel their pain and confusion, his entire army lying amidst the ruined streets of Subarisk, convulsing beneath the weight of the White’s punishment.
“He promises so much,” Catheline said, moving to join him at the window. Sirus felt her hand slip into his, grasping it tight. “But great works require great sacrifice.”
CHAPTER 28
Clay
The Carnstadt Mountains were less tall than the Coppersoles but somehow more threatening in appearance. They rose in sheer-sided monoliths from a thick blanket of encroaching jungle, flanks shrouded in drifting mist. The company had already spotted their first Black the day before, a youthful female according to Skaggerhill’s experienced opinion. They had dismounted from their final Cerath ride the previous morning and spent the next two days trekking through the increasingly verdant plains north of the mountains. The Black appeared at noon, a dark silhouette in the sky that circled them well out of longrifle range before flying off to the south.
“Guess they know we’re coming,” Clay said, watching the drake fade into the distance.
“Think she’s gonna go tell her folks they got visitors?” Skaggerhill said, a note of humour in his voice that faded when he saw Clay’s expression.
“Yeah,” Clay told him. “That’s exactly what I think she’s gonna do.”
“They’re still animals,” Skaggerhill insisted, a certain stubborn sullenness creasing his brow. “It’s a mistake to imagine they think like us, talk like us.”