CHAPTER 16
Clay
“They should call this place Bug-aria,” Loriabeth said, slapping a hand against her neck to squash yet another fly. They hung over the water in thick swarms and would plague the Lady Malynda at regular intervals as she ploughed her way north along the Quilam. Lieutenant Sigoral had the best map-reading skills amongst them and reckoned it had taken two days to cover some twenty miles of river. Skaggerhill blamed the current, which had a tendency to force random shifts in the boat’s course as well as impeding progress despite the efforts of her engine. As yet there had been no change in the green wall of reeds that covered both banks, if anything Clay thought they had grown taller as the miles wore on.
“Seer dammit, you little bastards!” Loriabeth cursed, slapping at her arms and neck as the Malynda carried them through another swarm.
“Cover up more,” Sigoral told her, pulling a duster from beneath his bench. He had donned a seaman’s jacket to ward off the flies, finding the sweat and discomfort caused by the humid atmosphere preferable to the attentions of the insects.
“In this heat?” Loriabeth said, more in resignation than protest, and she voiced no further objection as the lieutenant settled the heavy garment around her shoulders.
Kriz was the only member of the crew who didn’t feel obliged to cover her skin as the constant pall of smoke from the Malynda’s engine proved a deterrent to the bugs. Chief Bozware’s design was ingenious but not especially efficient, being prone to emitting a variety of unpleasant miasmas, a sooty, oil-tinged smoke being the most copious.
“We’ll need fuel soon,” Kriz told Clay, blinking at him above the handkerchief she used to shield her lungs from the engine’s vapours. “At this rate the coal will be exhausted by tomorrow afternoon.”
“She’d run on wood well enough,” Skaggerhill put in from the tiller before casting a sour glance at their surroundings. “If there was any to be had round here.”
“How about reducing speed?” Clay asked. “Won’t she burn less then?”
“We’re barely making headway as it is,” Skaggerhill said. “Any slower and we’ll be standing still.”
“We could harvest some reeds,” Sigoral suggested. “They should burn.”
“Not enough . . .” Kriz frowned, evidently translating the explanation in her head. “Energy. Besides, we would need to dry them out first.”
Clay turned his gaze to the prow where his uncle sat in customary, unspeaking vigilance. He had barely moved from the spot so far, except to partake of a brief meal or clean his rifle. “Any guidance to offer here, Uncle?” Clay called to him. “You know this place, right?”
He wasn’t sure Braddon would answer. He hadn’t said a word since setting off and even Loriabeth’s attempts to elicit a response had met with either non-committal grunts or outright silence. Today, however, he seemed willing to talk. “There’s an island,” he said, not turning. “’Bout ten miles on where the river widens. It’s got trees on it.” He paused and added, “Greens too, most likely.”
Clay’s gaze automatically began to scan the river, as it did whenever mention of Greens was made. So far they hadn’t seen a single sign of any drakes, not even a ripple in the Quilam’s swift-flowing surface. Even so, the sense of being observed had lingered ever since leaving the Superior. This is their place, he reminded himself. Even before the White I doubt they appreciated visitors.
“Can’t be helped,” he said, forcing a brisk decisiveness into his tone. It was something he noticed Hilemore tended to do when things weren’t going well. “There’s no walking out of here. Lieutenant, how long before we make this island?”
Sigoral briefly consulted his map and compass. “It’s not marked on this chart,” he said. “But assuming it’s to be found ten miles on, we should be there by late afternoon.”
“Everyone clean and load your iron,” Clay said. “Preacher, when we get there I want you at the prow with Uncle Braddon. You two’ll kill any Greens on the island, the rest of us will keep them off the boat.”
True to Sigoral’s calculation the island came into view a few minutes past the seventeenth hour. It was formed of a narrow spit of land some two hundred yards long and about fifty wide with, Clay was relieved to see, a copse of stunted but thick-limbed trees rising from its centre.
“What d’you see?” he asked Preacher as Skaggerhill steered them towards the eastern shore of the island.
The marksman took a moment to thoroughly scan the place before replying. “Only two. Starting to stir. Looks like the engine woke them up.”
“Take ’em as soon as you’re sure of the shot,” Clay said, pistol in one hand and vials of Red, Green and Black in the other as his gaze roved the river and the banks. Braddon fired almost immediately, the shot like a thunder-clap as it echoed across the water. His Protectorate-issue rifle had been equipped with a telescopic sight, a gift from the Superior’s armoury courtesy of Mr. Steelfine, enabling a clean kill even at this range. He worked the bolt and fired again after only the slightest pause, grunting, “Got both.”
“Take us in,” Clay told Skaggerhill then crouched to retrieve the bag of tools Chief Bozware had stowed in the lower hull. The engineer had had the foresight to include a saw and a pair of axes. “Me and the lieutenant will gather the fuel. The rest of you watch the water.”
He drank a full vial of Green and nodded at Sigoral to do the same. They leapt clear of the Malynda as Skaggerhill grounded her on the island’s sandy eastern bank, rushing into the trees in search of the most easily harvested timber. Sigoral chose a sapling and set about its trunk with the axe, hacking through it in less than a minute. Clay found a more thickly bodied tree farther in, the trunk too broad to be felled, but with a number of easily severed branches. By the time the Green wore off they had amassed a considerable pile of wood, albeit of less-than-regular proportions.
“Guess carpentry ain’t your strong suit,” Skaggerhill observed, eyeing the pile in amusement.
“We’ll saw it up on the boat,” Clay said, gathering logs into his arms. “Lend a hand here, will you?”
They had piled most of the wood onto the boat when he heard a commotion in the trees. Recognising Loriabeth’s voice raised in anger and alarm, Sigoral immediately snatched up his carbine and charged into the undergrowth, Clay and the others close behind.
“Just stop it, Pa! Please!” They found Loriabeth in a small clearing, staring at her father in shocked misery, tears shining in her eyes. Braddon stood a short distance away, hefting something in his hands. Something small that wriggled and screeched as he swung it up and then down. The screeching abruptly ceased as the thing’s head made contact with a boulder, the skull cracking open to spill blood and brains.
A chorus of screeches dragged Clay’s gaze from the grisly sight to a pair of infant Greens. They scrabbled about in a nest surrounded by the remnants of their scorched shells, hides shifting colour in distress. Only just hatched, Clay realised as his uncle bent to retrieve one of the infants, grabbing it by the hind legs and swinging it up and back.
“Uncle,” Clay said, wincing as the infant’s head connected with the boulder, its brains mixing with that of its sibling. Loriabeth let out a sob and took an involuntary step towards her father, fists balled. Clay caught her before she could launch herself at Braddon, who barely seemed to notice.
“That’s enough, Uncle,” Clay said as Braddon tossed the dead infant aside and reached for the last one. He appeared deaf to Clay’s words, tearing his arm away as Clay reached for him.
“Captain!” Skaggerhill had arrived at the clearing and stood staring at the scene, eyes wide and appalled.
“It’s time for them to die, Skaggs,” Braddon said, reaching for the final infant. “All of them.”
“Contractor’s code,” Skaggerhill said, stepping forward to grip Braddon by the shoulders. The harvester gave a brief shake of his captain’s shoulders. “Young ’uns are left be. Elst what are we gonna hunt in days to come?”
“Time for hunting’s over,” Braddon replied, Clay seeing a strange emptiness in his uncle’s eyes as he regarded Skaggerhill. “It’s time for slaughter now. Ain’t no room in this world for both us and them. The thing that commands them sees it. Time we did too.”
He tried to shrug off Skaggerhill’s hands but the harvester held on, a certain desperate bafflement creeping into his voice as he said, “This ain’t you, Captain. And it ain’t us . . .”
His words were abruptly drowned out by the flat crack of a longrifle from the direction of the boat, followed soon after by a flurry of pistol shots. “Greens!” Clay said. “Get back to the Malynda.”
Sigoral and Loriabeth immediately sprinted off, followed by Skaggerhill after a brief, hesitant glance at Braddon, who stood unmoving, gaze locked on the squalling infant drake. It had calmed now and stared up at its would-be murderer, yellow eyes blinking as it let out a series of chirps, small tail sweeping from side to side.
“Let’s go, Uncle,” Clay said, his voice pitched just below a shout. Braddon took a step towards the infant, boot raised. “I said, let’s go!” Clay stepped between his uncle and the drake, meeting his gaze and finding the previous emptiness replaced with dark, quivering fury.
“Since when do you command me, boy?” Braddon demanded in a low voice.
Clay looked over his shoulder as another volley of shots sounded from the direction of the Malynda. “We ain’t got time for . . .” he began, turning back to take his uncle’s fist in the face. As he landed flat on his back, tasting blood and blinking away stars, he at least had the satisfaction of seeing the infant Green scamper off into the undergrowth.
“This is my company,” Braddon said, advancing towards him, fist pulled back for another punch. He let out a pained grunt as Clay jack-knifed, lashing out with both boots to catch his uncle in the chest. Clay rolled to his feet and swung a punch into Braddon’s jaw, hard enough to set him back a step or two.
“Not any more,” Clay said, jabbing another blow at his uncle’s nose, drawing blood. “Not since you gave it up to wallow in the shit of your misery.” He lashed out again, catching Braddon on the chin, then followed up with a three-punch combination to the body that left the older man stooped and winded. “It’s my company now.” Another punch, blood flying from Braddon’s lips as he reeled away. “You ain’t nothing no more, old man!” A right hook to the side of the head, Braddon staggering, about to fall. “Aunt Freda would be ashamed . . .”
Braddon’s arm moved in a blur as Clay’s fist swung again, blocking the blow before taking hold of his arm. He delivered a punch of his own to Clay’s gut, doubling him over, before hoisting him up and tossing him into the bushes. Clay groaned, clutching at his aching midriff as he tried to fill his winded lungs. After a few ragged breaths he managed to roll over and began to push himself upright, then saw his uncle striding towards him with a drawn pistol.
Shit, thought Clay. Guess I finally made him mad enough to kill me.
Braddon brought the pistol level with his chest and fired, left hand fanning the hammer as he loosed off a rapid salvo. Clay heard something heavy hit the ground behind him and turned to see a fully grown aquatic Green lying dead a short distance away, its hide continuing to flicker as it twitched. His gaze swung back to his uncle, now calmly but swiftly slotting cartridges into his revolver. He met Clay’s eyes, sighed and stooped to offer him a hand.
“If you’re gonna hit a man,” he said. “Make sure you put him down with the first blow.”
Clay took the proffered hand and hauled himself upright, drawing his revolver and following as his uncle set off for the boat at a run. They found it wreathed in gunsmoke with several Green corpses littering the surrounding sand-bank. Kriz had already stoked the engine to full power and Skaggerhill sat at the tiller, beckoning urgently for them to get aboard. Clay fixed his gaze on the boat and accelerated into a sprint, refusing to look back as a chorus of enraged growls erupted behind. Preacher stood at the prow of the boat, rifle at his shoulder and apparently aimed at Clay’s head. He instinctively jerked to the side but Preacher had already fired, the bullet whipping past Clay’s ear like an angry hornet before finding its target.
Skaggerhill had drawn the Malynda a few yards away from the bank to get her clear of the sand, so they were obliged to wade through the last few yards. Preacher and Sigoral kept up a steady barrage as Kriz and Loriabeth helped haul Clay and Braddon aboard. Once they lay gasping on the deck Kriz engaged the propeller, setting the boat into forward motion.
“They get you?” Loriabeth asked, her gaze switching from Clay’s bloodied face to that of her father.
“Ran into a tree,” Clay replied, wiping blood from his nose and getting to his feet. He looked back at the island, finding it overrun with Greens, all howling a chorus of rage in their high-pitched, almost bird-like voices. A few slipped into the water in pursuit but soon fell behind thanks to the Malynda’s speed, aided by the reduced current, which seemed to be less swift in this stretch of river.
“Why ain’t they coming for us?” Braddon wondered, frowning in puzzlement. “Thought the White wants us dead.”
“I don’t think the White’s got hold of them right now,” Clay said, recalling the nest and the infant Greens. “They’re just defending the place where their young ’uns get hatched.”
He sat down, taking a canteen and tipping some of the contents over his face to wash away the rest of the blood. He had a lingering ache in his gut and a swelling below his eye but it looked like his uncle had spared him any permanent damage or lost teeth. Braddon, it turned out, hadn’t been so lucky. Clay watched him take the bench opposite and open his mouth wide, reaching inside to pluck out a tooth. He gave Clay a sour glance before tossing it over the side.
Clay winced at a sudden upsurge of pain in his gut. He extracted a vial of Green from his wallet and took a quarter sip before offering it to his uncle. “Won’t grow a new tooth, but it’ll take away the pain and heal the hole.”
Braddon shrugged and accepted the vial, taking a small sip before tipping the entire contents down his throat. He sat for a time, jaws clenched against the burn of the Green. “So . . . Captain,” he said eventually. “There’s still a great deal of country betwixt us and Krystaline Lake. You got any notion of what we’re gonna do when we get to the end of this river?”
Clay gave a humourless grin. “Was kinda hoping you did, Captain.”
Seen through the lens of a spy-glass the Cerath seemed small at first, Clay initially concluding they were of horse-like dimensions, albeit with a longer neck and more sturdy body and legs. It was only when one of them began grazing on the upper leaves of a tree that he gained a true impression of their size. “At least a third again bigger than the biggest horse I ever saw,” he said, handing the spy-glass back to his uncle. “You really think we can tame these beasts?”
“Tame them, no,” Braddon said. “But you can ride them.”
“You sure, Pa?” Loriabeth asked, shielding her eyes to view the Cerath herd. “Seem a little rambunctious to me.”
Clay surveyed the herd once more, seeing two of the larger beasts squaring up for a confrontation. They both pawed the ground with their fore-hooves, heads lowered as they bellowed out a challenge that could be heard even at this distance. After a lengthy period of bellowing and earth scraping the Cerath charged at each other, dust billowing across the plain as they met. They fought by rearing up and assailing one another with their hooves, reminding Clay of inexpert drunks fighting in a Blinds bar. The combat was brief if loud, one Cerath abruptly abandoning the fight to gallop away a short distance. Its opponent chased it for a short time then veered off, spending a few moments to call out in triumph before returning to the business of grazing on the long grass that seemed to dominate the southern plains.
“That’s the bull,” Braddon said. “He’s the one we want.”
The Lady Malynda had come to a grinding halt in the shallows of the upper Quilam two days before, forcing them to proceed on foot. They cut reeds to camouflage her, there being the faint possibility that a Spoiled might happen upon her in their absence. Hauling their gear and Kriz’s apparatus across the marsh to the plains had been both tedious and exhausting. The spongey, bug-infested land seemed to go on forever and their feet suffered from the constant damp. By the time the marsh gave way to firm grasslands Clay had to order an extended halt just to dry out their feet. Consequently, he had welcomed his uncle’s suggestion that they ride rather than walk to Krystaline Lake, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was an awfully long way.
“Alright,” he said. “How’s this done?”
“Cerath’s a herd animal,” Braddon said a short time later. He led Clay towards the herd with a purposeful stride, making no effort at concealment. “The bull’s the leader and the rest are so loyal they’ll follow him over a cliff. Curious thing about these beasts is they get all docile-like once you’re on their back. Met a naturalist fella in Carvenport once, said it was to do with their size. They’re so big nothing of any weight ever sits on them. Even the drakes don’t land on them when they hunt the herds. Blacks’ll pin them to the ground and Reds’ll roast their legs so’s they can’t run off. So when something gets astride them they get set in a state of scared confusion. Thing is”—he paused and came to a halt, turning and handing Clay a length of coiled rope—“only ever seen this done by a Blood-blessed. Us normal folk are just too slow.”
Clay looked at the bull, which by now had noticed their approach. The other Cerath were slowly gathering behind him as he stared at the two small interlopers, jaws grinding on a mouthful of grass and one foreleg stamping the ground. “That’s a warning sign,” Braddon said, although Clay hadn’t really needed the explanation. At this remove the bull seemed much larger than his first estimation and it was hard to credit being able to control such a beast just by virtue of landing on its back.
“It has to be him, huh?” he asked Braddon, reaching for his wallet.
“Yep. Try landing on one of the smaller ones and the others’ll just run off and leave it. Be sure to loop that rope around his neck soon as you can.”
Clay took a vial of Green from his wallet, drank it all then, after a moment’s consideration, drank another. He waited for the product to flood his system, feeling his limbs thrum with it as he focused on the bull. The animal clearly sensed an increased level of danger for it let out a bellow, head lowering and fore-hooves pawing. Clay set off at a sprint, Green-enhanced speed making the grassland blur around him as he sped towards the bull. It bellowed again and charged to meet the challenge. Time seemed to slow as Clay closed with the animal, the dust it raised from the plain ascending in gentle clouds and the huge muscles of its legs quivering. After covering the last few yards it planted both fore-hooves on the ground and spun, lashing out with its hind legs. Clay dived and rolled under the flailing hooves, coming to a halt as the bull whirled to face him.
They stared at each other for a second, separated by a distance of barely ten feet. The Cerath shook its mighty head, eyes narrowed in wary contemplation of its foe. Unwilling to allow it the time to launch another attack, Clay surged into a sprint once more, covering the distance in two strides and leaping as high as his enhanced strength would allow. He turned head over heels in mid air, twisting with an acrobat’s precision to bring himself down squarely on the bull’s back . . . then let out a painful grunt as the bull dodged aside and he landed hard on the ground.
The bull roared and reared above him, hooves rising for a killing stamp, then froze. The beast’s roar choked off in its throat as it continued to stand there on its hind legs, immobile as a statue.
“Looked like you needed some help.”
Clay looked round to see Sigoral standing a short distance away, his gaze locked on the bull with the kind of concentration that only came from use of Black.
“That’s the truth.” Clay got to his feet, unslinging the coiled rope from his shoulders. “Probably should’ve thought of this in the first place.” He leapt onto the bull’s back, swiftly looping the rope over its neck before the elevated angle caused him to slip off. “Alright,” he told Sigoral, who nodded and withdrew his Black before wisely retreating several yards.
The bull let out a strange sound as it settled onto all four legs. It was somewhere between a sigh and a whinny and spoke of a deep, primal distress. Clay had expected it to buck or stamp, but true to his uncle’s word it just stood there, its sighs becoming more shrill by the second.
“Easy, big fella,” Clay said, smoothing a hand along the beast’s leathery hide. The bull twitched in response, craning its head to view the thing on its back with wide, fearful eyes. Clay continued to try and soothe it without much success before it occurred to him he had no notion of how to get it to move.
“Lay the rope on the right side of his neck,” Braddon said a short while later. “Gentle like, no need to whip him.” Clay did as he said, the muscles of the bull’s right shoulder shuddering in response as the animal shifted to the left. It came to a halt when he removed the rope from its hide. Clay tried the same trick with the left side with similar results. “Lay it on his rump to get him to walk,” Braddon said. “A couple of taps and he’ll run, but don’t try that just yet. Gotta get the rest of them in line.”
The other Cerath continued to stand a short way off, voicing sighing whinnies of distress but displaying no sign of any violent action. It was as if the immobility of the bull cast some sort of spell over them, robbing them of their will. A few grew skittish as the rest of the company approached, some shying away. At Braddon’s direction Lieutenant Sigoral used Black to hold a chosen few still long enough for them to be mounted and the gear securely strapped in place.
“Compass bearing, if you please, Lieutenant,” Braddon said once they had all mounted up. “East-north-east.”
Sigoral rode behind Loriabeth, who had hold of the reins of their Cerath, a young male only a few inches shorter than the bull. Unlike the herd leader, however, this beast was prone to continually turning about so it took awhile for the lieutenant to get a compass bearing. “That way,” he said finally, pointing towards a stretch of open plain.
“Once he starts he won’t stop till he’s tired,” Braddon called to Clay. “And that may take a good long while so hold tight.”
It took Clay a few minutes to manoeuvre the bull into position, the rest of the herd growing more agitated as he did so. Once he was reasonably sure the beast was facing the required direction Clay slapped the rope twice against his rump, whereupon the bull let out a throaty roar of alarm and spurred into a gallop.
Clay gave an involuntary laugh of exhilaration as the Cerath sped across the grasslands. Its speed far outstripped that of any horse he had ever ridden and the joy of acceleration came close to matching the feeling of riding atop Lutharon’s back. A thunder of hooves caused him to look over his shoulder to be greeted by the sight of the rest of the herd following, the earth seeming to tremble as they raced to keep up with their leader. Dust rose high enough to obscure the sun so that it felt like they were galloping through a foggy void. Clay turned his gaze to the front where the plains stretched away like a yellow-green sea. Taking a firm grip on the rope coiled about the bull’s neck he wondered if it might have been a good idea to drink some more Green before setting off.