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 frigate. 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 Veilmist, 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.”