Clay didn’t hesitate, ignoring the growing crack in the dome and whatever might have caused it. He unslung the longrifle and brought it to his shoulder in a smooth, single movement that would have made Foxbine proud. He worked the lever, jacking a steel-tip into the chamber and trained the sights on the White’s head, dead between the eyes. The head, always the head. He wasn’t the marksman his uncle was, but even he couldn’t miss at this range.
Something blurred beyond the sights as he squeezed the trigger, the roar of the longrifle filling the dome and the muzzle flash blinding him for a second. When his vision cleared he saw Silverpin on her knees, her sapphire eyes staring at him in frank astonishment as she held a hand to the gushing hole in her chest.
“What . . .” Clay began, choking on the words as their eyes locked together. “What did you do?”
She opened her mouth and a thick torrent of blood cascaded down her chin. She gave a small, convulsive jerk and collapsed onto her back, blood spreading out from her lifeless body, forming a near-symmetrical shape on the glass. Wings, Clay thought, the longrifle suddenly very heavy in his hands. Looks just like wings.
A low, rumbling sound drew his gaze from Silverpin’s corpse and he looked up to find himself staring into the eyes of the White. The very open and awake eyes of the White.
CHAPTER 44
Lizanne
Lizanne reached for her second revolver as the Blue began to dip its head towards her, mouth open and water cascading from its many teeth. She wasn’t sure whether she intended to use it on the drake or herself. She had managed to get it free by the time the beast’s snout had descended to within a yard of her, where it stopped. Lizanne stared into its suddenly frozen eyes, finding only her reflection, a white-faced woman in overalls clutching a tiny pistol as she trod water and waited to die. She found it a singularly unedifying view.
The drake blinked and drew back from her, a strange echoing rattle sounding from within its body, echoed by its two companions. Lizanne bobbed higher in the waves as they coiled together, their rattles mingling, becoming synchronized. She had a sense that they were greeting each other, and from the way their frills and spines twitched, discerned a certain alarm at their circumstances, as if finding themselves in a sea with so many ships and booming guns was a sudden and unexpected occurrence. After a few more seconds of shared rattling they separated, one casting an incurious glance at Lizanne before all three vanished beneath the waves.
She saw the Laudable Intent a few hundred yards away, her hull now unencumbered by drakes, paddles churning in opposite directions as she began to turn about. Suddenly aware of the absence of gun-fire, Lizanne turned her gaze to the rest of the fleet, finding every vessel free of attacking Blues and no sign of them in the surrounding waters. The Laudable completed its turn and began to plough towards her. As it came closer a shrill note sounded from its steam-whistle, a signal soon taken up by the whole fleet. Lizanne thought she heard cheers amongst the wailing sirens but found she couldn’t share in the delusion of victory.
Did he kill it? she wondered, the revolver slipping from her unfeeling hand, the chill of the sea and all-consuming fatigue combining to drag her into unconsciousness. Or is it merely tired of this game?
CHAPTER 45
Clay
He should have felt terror, or let his mind slip into a madness birthed by the certainty that this thing was intent on his death. He could see a definite calculation in its eyes, an awareness that went beyond the keen but limited intelligence he saw in Lutharon’s gaze. And beyond the awareness was hate. It knew what he had done, and it desired a reckoning. But still Clay found he couldn’t feel anything beyond guilt, clawing away at his insides as he lowered his gaze once more to Silverpin’s corpse. Lover, saviour, betrayer . . . monster. She had been all of them, and yet he knew this was a crime he would never escape.
A soft, pattering sound made him lift his gaze once more and he saw a trickle of blood falling onto the glass. He followed the red stream to the wound on the White’s neck, just behind its head where the steel-tip had impacted, presumably deflected by its brief passage through Silverpin’s body. “Seems I missed,” he said, meeting the White’s all-too-knowing gaze once again, feeding the small seed of anger growing inside, hoping it might banish the guilt. He smiled, revealing gritted teeth and jacked another round into the longrifle’s chamber. “Won’t happen twice.”
The White’s tail moved in a blur, cracking the air as it uncoiled. Clay threw himself flat on his back, the tail cutting the air above and one of the jagged spines scoring a cut on his chest, ripping through shirt and skin to leave him writhing in pain and shock. He spewed profanity as he got to his knees, fighting the pain and raising the rifle to his shoulder. Another swipe of the great, white tail, the snap of sundered air accompanied by the sound of shattered metal and wood. The longrifle came apart in Clay’s hands, the two halves leaking bullets and workings onto the glass. He threw the ruined weapon aside and scrambled upright, reaching for the vials on his belt.
The White’s tail blurred beneath him, sweeping him from his feet with enough force to send him somersaulting through the air. He landed hard, agony flaring from the wound in his chest, sapping his strength and leaving him gasping on the glass. A soft hiss made him look up and he found the White’s head poised above, teeth bared and jaw widening. It won’t kill me, Clay knew, yelling with pain whilst his hand still fumbled for his vials. Not for a long time . . .
All thought stilled as he saw that the blood continued to flow from the wound in the White’s neck, trickling over the scales and sending a small cascade of drops straight towards him. Clay tried to clamp his mouth shut, but too late, a single drop making it past his lips and onto his tongue. The pain made the agony in his chest seem no more than a dull ache, his throat working in a convulsive swallow, taking the blood deep inside where it burned and burned . . .
—
. . . cold. A harsh, lacerating cold the depth of which he had never felt before. He realised his eyes were open, no longer bunched shut as he writhed with the White’s blood burning his insides. There was no pain either, just the dreadful cold. He looked upon a field of ice, the same field of ice he had glimpsed in the whirl of memory, except now the sky above was pale blue rather than starlit night. The great twisted spire still jutted from the ice but seemed to have diminished somehow, not standing quite as tall as before. Clay wondered if it had shrunk but then realised the ice had in fact thickened about it, indicating the passage of countless years since the first memory had been captured.
The sound of boots crunching into snow made him turn and he found himself facing a tall man with an impressive breadth of shoulder, clad in a thick fur-lined jacket. The hood of the jacket was raised but Clay could see the glimmer of a Maritime Protectorate cap badge inside it, and the man’s face; blockishly handsome of North Mandinorian complexion. His gaze was direct and focused, making Clay realise he was present in this scene, no longer just an observer of baffling mysteries; he was really here. The man regarded Clay with an expression of shrewd if cautious satisfaction, the face of a man receiving a debt he never expected to be paid. After a second he gave a soft grunt and turned to regard the great spire rising from the ice.
“So,” he said in a voice rich in military gruffness, “this is where we save the world, Mr. Torcreek . . .”
—
. . . the burning returned with a savage intensity and he was back, still writhing on the glass as the White’s head dipped lower. Clay’s fingers finally alighted on his vials and he began to tug them free, intending to drink them all at once, knowing it would be hopeless, knowing the White wouldn’t allow it, but trying anyway. He stopped as his gaze lit on something beyond the White, something small and dark falling through the opening in the dome’s roof. It seemed to fall with incredible slowness so that Clay could make out what it was with relative ease. A barrel, just like the one he had carried down here. A barrel full o
f wonderful accelerating agent.
The barrel tumbled onto the crystal, bursting apart as one of its jagged points pierced it, blossoming into bright yellow-orange flame with enough force to shake the dome down to its foundations. The White reeled away from Clay, its screech of rage cutting through the echoing boom. It rushed towards the crystal which, Clay saw, was now glowing with far less intensity, its myriad facets shot through with a web of cracks. It continued to revolve in the air for a few seconds, its light flickering like a guttering oil-lamp, then fell heavily onto the glass floor.
The White screamed again, the sound threatening to burst Clay’s ears as it circled the dimmed and cracked crystal, wings flaring and tail thrashing. He sensed something oddly infantile about its reaction, its jerky frustration putting him in mind of a child poking at a broken toy. He is still so young, Silverpin had said, the thought drawing Clay’s eyes to her body, still lying on the glass with its bloody wings spread out, sapphire eyes staring in accusation. Clay tore his gaze away and struggled to his feet, sagging under the pain of the wound in his chest and the residual burn of the White’s blood. He pulled three vials from his wallet, Green, Red and Black, and drank them all in a single gulp. He straightened as the Green took effect, dimming his many agonies, then took a purposeful stride towards the White.
“Come on, you pasty bastard,” he breathed, using Black to snatch one of Silverpin’s blades from her belt. “We ain’t done.”
Hearing him the White whirled, mouth gaping. The calculated cruelty was gone from its eyes. Now there was only blind rage. The air about its mouth began to shimmer as the heat built, preparing to ignite the torrent of gasses summoned from its guts. Clay crouched, ready to dodge the flames, then stopped as a crack sounded from above and a large piece of the dome’s ceiling fell, tumbling straight down to deliver a glancing but heavy blow to the White before slamming onto the glass floor. Clay watched an intricate matrix of cracks spread through the glass from the point of impact, staring with an unwarranted detachment as his Green-enhanced eyes tracked the complex array of fractures until it had covered the floor from end to end. Clay cast a final glance at the White, screeching anew as it struggled free of the tumbled stone, dragging its leg a little. He focused his gaze at the glass beneath it and unleashed a burst of Black. The floor shattered and the White fell through a cloud of glittering powder, voicing a plaintive scream as it tumbled into whatever waited below.
Hearing an ominous cacophony of cracks building about his feet Clay turned and ran for the dome wall. This time an exit stubbornly refused to appear at his approach so he let loose with all the remaining Black, blowing a small but accessible hole through it. The glass gave way beneath him just as he reached the new-made exit, his hand reaching out with Green-boosted speed and strength to grip the edge just in time. He began to haul himself up then paused at a new sound from below, the roar of drake-born flames. Looking down he saw the White, flames jetting from its mouth in a powerful stream. But this fire was not cast at him. The White wheeled about amidst the spiral array Clay had glimpsed on entering the dome, now revealed as row after row of small round objects. They were arranged in a series of vast curving terraces, like the centre of a sunflower, extending far beyond the diameter of the dome’s floor.
He hung there, watching the White breathe its flames and every round object they touched turn black, but not entirely. In each one he could see a glow, small at first but building fast, something he had seen before in the breeding pens. Eggs, he realised as the White continued its task, each gout of flame accompanied by an unmistakable squawk of triumph. The waking fire.
Feeling his Green start to ebb he pulled himself up, running free of the dome then drawing up short at the sight of the Briteshore folk. They stood clutching their knives and pickaxes, every face an echo of the White’s fury, and now there was no Silverpin to hold them back. Clay fixed his gaze on the centre of their line and started to summon his Red, intending to sprint forward and burn his way through, using Silverpin’s knife to deal with any who came too close. In the event, it proved unnecessary.
Lutharon roared as he descended through the shaft, casting a blast of flame down on the Spoiled, roasting about half before landing amidst the others, tail whipping and claws rending. Ethelynne clung to his back as he did his deadly dance, the Spoiled soon cast away like red-stained chaff.
Clay sank to his knees as the last of the Green faded, kept from fainting only by the pain in his chest. Lutharon trotted to him, claws leaving red stains on the stone, and Ethelynne slid from the drake’s back to crouch at Clay’s side. “How?” he asked in a strained mutter.
“Mr. Skaggerhill was able to repair the cable-car machinery,” she said, smiling then wincing as she leaned closer to peer at the wound in his chest. “It took a lot of powder to blast a channel big enough for Lutharon to enter.”
“Told them to leave,” Clay groaned, slumping forward. “You all need to get out of here.”
“Now, now, none of that.” She hooked her arms under his and lifted him up with the kind of strength that only came from Green. “This is a terribly interesting place you’ve found,” she observed as she dragged him towards Lutharon. “Worthy of extensive study.”
“Can’t stay.” Clay turned his lolling head towards the ruined dome. “Eggs . . .”
“Eggs?”
A savage roar sounded from the dome, the part-demolished ceiling bursting apart as the White came crashing through from below. It descended amidst a cloud of debris to land barely twenty feet away, head and body lowered as it screeched a challenge at Lutharon. The Black drake responded with a bellow of his own, hopping clear of Ethelynne and Clay to confront the White, tail coiling and wings spread wide.
“Stop!” Ethelynne pulled away from Clay and rushed to stand between the two drakes, holding her hand out to Lutharon, freezing him in place. “No! This . . .” She faltered and turned to face the White, voice soft so that Clay had to strain to hear her. “This is my mistake to fix, old friend.”
The White seemed to lose some of its fury as it looked upon her, head angled slightly as its eyes narrowed in a clear display of recognition. After a moment it issued a soft growl of consternation, lips curling back from dagger-like teeth in an irritated snarl.
“Yes,” Ethelynne told it, “I regret not killing you too.”
The White’s snarl widened into a roar and it lunged forward, forelegs raised and talons extending . . . then stopped as Ethelynne unleashed her Black. Clay could feel the force of it, even though it was directed elsewhere, a more powerful demonstration of the Blessing than he had ever witnessed. He could see the White straining against her control, nostrils flaring and leaking smoke as it let out a continual, rage-filled rumble.
“Clay.” He switched his gaze to Ethelynne, finding her glancing over her shoulder, a sad smile on her lips. It was so similar to Silverpin’s smile that he almost found it sickening and he knew the bladehand hadn’t been the only one to use him. “Thank you,” Ethelynne said. “I needed to end this. You have to go now, they’re waiting for you.”
She turned to Lutharon, meeting the drake’s eyes and Clay felt something pass between them. Lutharon shuddered as she looked away, a faint, keening sounding from him as he turned and scooped Clay from the floor, wings spreading in readiness.
“No!” Clay struggled as the drake’s grip tightened, but it was a feeble attempt and he felt more of his blood spill as Lutharon sprinted away then launched himself into the air. Clay managed to twist in his grip as the wings beat the air to carry them away. He saw Ethelynne focus her full attention on the White, throwing it back with a savage burst of Black then lifting a large piece of fallen masonry to bring it down on the beast’s head with a bone-smashing crunch. Still it lived, however, shrugging off the blow and replying with a blast of flame. Ethelynne became a blur, leaping clear and replying with flames of her own as she unleashed her Red, the White howling as the raw fles
h of its wounds steamed in the heat.
For a moment it seemed she might prevail, the White shrinking back as she cast more debris at it in between blasts of heat, but then a strange ripping sound rose from the ruined dome. In seconds it built into a crescendo as a flock of juvenile drakes erupted from the dome, the ripping sound revealed as the air being rent by so many wings. They swirled about the chamber for a short time, transforming into a two-coloured cloud as Lutharon gained height. Red, Clay saw, vision dimming. And White . . . but no Black . . .
The last he saw before the blackness claimed him was the cloud descending on Ethelynne’s now-tiny form. They covered her in a dense swarm that thrashed and pulsed for a short time before breaking apart, leaving no sign of her behind. And the White roared out its victory.
CHAPTER 46
Lizanne
Looks different, he said, and she sensed his scrutiny of her whirlwinds. Not so tidy.
I have a glut of new memories, she said. And haven’t had much opportunity for housekeeping recently.
She noted that his own mindscape had changed markedly, Nelphia’s surface rendered in darker hues than before with many dust-devils drifting across the valleys and peaks. She had watched him craft the memory of his encounter with the White, raising moon-dust and shaping it into a coherent narrative, or as coherent as his grieving mind would allow. The sight of Ethelynne Drystone’s demise was particularly fractured, reflecting his reluctance to relive the event. Even so, she had been impressed by his fortitude, keeping control throughout the images of betrayal and loss even as she sensed his pain.