CHAPTER 33
Sirus
A cluster of old people huddled together beneath the tower of their village temple. It was an old Oracular church long since converted to the Imperial cult, the tower crowned by a bronze bust of Emperor Caranis. The elderly villagers, about twenty in all, displayed mixed reactions to their imminent fate. Some kept their gaze firmly on the rain-muddied ground. Others stared at Sirus and the other Spoiled in unabashed defiance whilst a few cast repeated glances at the bust of the recently dead Emperor above, as if even now he possessed some divine power of deliverance.
“This is all?” Sirus asked Forest Spear.
“Every house is empty,” the tribal reported. “We found cart-tracks leading to the west, but they’re a few days old. Just like the others.”
It had been the same for the past week. The White’s host had enjoyed a period of success early in the march, capturing a string of towns and villages and swelling their ranks in the process. Veilmist calculated the daily recruitment tally at over eight thousand and Catheline communicated the White’s satisfaction to the entire army. But it hadn’t lasted.
The farther south they marched the farther news of their coming travelled. At first the villages were only half-deserted, the inhabitants caught in the midst of their panicked flight. Later they found a large town empty of all but the sick and the old but, with the aid of the Reds, had managed to pursue and capture the bulk of the populace a few miles to the south-west. It had been a messy business, the yield of recruits limited thanks to the Reds, who had been permitted a bout of indulgent slaughter. By the time the first Spoiled battalions arrived fully half the adults and most of the children were dead, the corpses scattered about the country-side in ugly, half-eaten mounds as the Reds squawked and gorged themselves.
They require rewards too, Catheline explained in response to Sirus’s frustrated query. For a drake, flesh is the spoil of victory.
Since then every village had been like this one, the people fled so far and fast that any attempt to capture them would entail an unacceptable delay. All that remained were those too old or infirm to run.
“Leave them for the drakes?” Forest Spear asked, flicking his war-club at the huddle of old people.
Kinder to kill them, Sirus thought. One bullet each to the head. Left alive the Greens would most likely claim them, or worse, the White’s hideous brood of juveniles might see them as a source of amusement.
He began to issue the order then stopped as one of the old people stepped forward, a tall man in threadbare clothing but possessed of a sturdy bearing despite his age. Sirus suspected the man had once been a soldier, probably a sergeant judging by the volume in his voice as he cried out, “Monsters!” before bending to retrieve a stone from the muddy ground. “Filthy, demon monsters!” he yelled, wrinkled face red with fury as he threw the stone at Sirus. He ducked and it sailed harmlessly overhead, the old man immediately crouching to search the ground for another missile.
Don’t, Sirus commanded as Forest Spear unslung his rifle.
Unable to find a stone, the old man settled for a handful of mud, casting it at Sirus with impressive aim. It struck him squarely on the breast of the Corvantine general’s tunic Catheline insisted he wear. The old man straightened from the throw, gnarled fists bunched as he glowered in defiance. It was clear that he expected a swift death. Sirus returned his stare, unmoving and expressionless. The old soldier let out a snarl and quickly bent to fill both his fists with more mud, hurling it at Sirus then immediately crouching for more ammunition. Sirus allowed the missiles to strike him on the head and shoulder, doing and saying nothing.
Apparently emboldened by this display, and the lack of reaction from Sirus or the other Spoiled, a few of the old man’s companions began to join in his assault. Two old women, one so bent and crook-legged she had to hobble forward with the aid of a stick, scraped mud and stones from the ground and hurled it at the impassive monsters, accompanied by a torrent of colourful insults.
“Demon shit-eaters!”
“Cock-sucking freaks!”
Soon what had been a cowed and miserable huddle had become an enraged mob, the air filled with arcing mud and stones that rained down on the immobile Spoiled. Sirus held them in place, forbidding retaliation as the barrage continued. He felt a range of emotions from his fellow Spoiled, from anger and frustration to cruel amusement. But there was also grudging admiration, even from Forest Spear and a few of the other tribals. Normally they viewed the un-Spoiled with a mixture of contempt and indifference, now it appeared they were capable of more feeling than he suspected.
He allowed the assault to continue, wondering how long it might take for these old folk to exhaust themselves as his uniform became increasingly caked in mud. The question proved moot, however, when a dark-winged shadow swept over the village. The barrage instantly stopped, the mob’s defiance vanished as all eyes turned upwards, wide and bright with terror. All eyes except those of the old soldier.
“Kill me, you fucker!” he raged as the shadow swept over them once again, both fists raised to the sky. “Go on kill me, if you got the balls!”
Catheline’s half-amused, half-baffled query slipped into Sirus’s mind. What is this? He looked up to see her perched on the back of Katarias, the Red’s wings blurring as he hovered fifty yards above.
An oddly irrational display, he replied. You know I can’t help but be curious.
Be curious later.
Katarias stilled his wings and went into a dive, streaking down to unleash a torrent of fire that consumed first the old soldier and then his terrified companions. The fire was so swift and intense none had a chance to run and soon a pile of twisted, blackened corpses lay beneath the temple tower.
Come, Catheline ordered as Katarias bore her towards the edge of the village. I have something to show you.
It was a drake memory and therefore not instantly comprehensible. Soon, however, Sirus’s mind shifted to accommodate the difference in perception and what had been a blur of smudged colours became a jungle viewed from above.
Arradsia, he concluded, recognising some of the trees as unique to the continent.
Yes, Catheline responded, her thoughts tinged with impatience. This is from this morning. Watch . . . There at the edge of the trees.
Sirus concentrated on the required portion of the view, soon picking out the sight of a pair of human figures emerging from the jungle into a region of sparse bush-country. The height of the drake that had seen this was too great to make out any details.
Spoiled? he asked, so far failing to perceive the significance of this memory.
No. Catheline’s mind had darkened considerably, rich in the same rage as when she shared visions of the Lethridge woman. The image magnified as the drake focused on the two figures, Sirus making out the features of a man and a woman, both young and of South Mandinorian heritage. They wore the garb typical of the corporate Contractors who, until recently, had roamed the Interior in search of drakes.
So a few Contractors are still alive, he thought. Hardly surprising. It’s a big land-mass.
These aren’t just Contractors. Her rage blossomed to new heights, possessed of the kind of intensity he knew could only be compelled by the White. They are as dangerous as that Lethridge bitch, perhaps even more so.
The memory shifted again as the Red that had captured it began a descent, gaze fixed on the pair below. They grew in size as it streaked down, Sirus feeling the beast’s killing urge and the heat of the gases rising from belly to throat. It never got a chance to ignite its flames. The vision turned completely red and Sirus felt something hard and sharp clamp onto the Red’s neck. After that the memory fragmented into a discordant series of images and brief flashes of agony that told of a furious struggle, and a losing one at that. Catheline froze it just as the Red coiled its neck for a final snap at its assailant, Sirus finding himself confronted by the sight of a very large Black drake, the lower jaw partially obscured by the thick stream of fire it had called forth.
“They were saved by a Black,” he said as Catheline withdrew her mind.
She paced back and forth on a patch of muddy ground a short distance from the village. Lately she had taken to wearing a Corvantine cavalry officer’s uniform, complete with short jacket, sword, riding britches and knee-high boots. Of course it had been tailored to fit her pleasing proportions making for what would normally be a striking appearance. But today her boots and britches were stained with mud and the continuing drizzle had disordered her hair. The frantic expression she struggled to keep from her face, and the way she kept her arms tightly crossed, made this the least attractive impression she had yet made on him. He found he didn’t enjoy seeing her like this. For all her red-black eyes and fearsome abilities, now she appeared merely human, and he preferred her a monster. A monster will be easier to kill when the time comes.
He concealed the thought with a suitable degree of fear but Catheline barely seemed to notice.
“You know what this means,” she said, inhuman eyes flashing at him from behind a damp veil of displaced hair.
“Actually, I don’t,” he replied honestly.
“The Blacks!” She bared elongated teeth in a snarl. “The Blacks will be coming against us.” Her voice subsided into a murmur, gaze becoming distant. “Just like before. He thought with their allies destroyed they would keep themselves removed, to be dealt with later. But somehow . . .” Her lips twitched, brows furrowed in fury. “Somehow these two have formed an alliance with them. They will be coming.”
“There’s a great deal of ocean between Arradsia and Varestia,” Sirus pointed out.
“And many ships here.” She pushed another memory into his head, a top-down view of a crater situated on a stretch of coast-line and resembling a huge bite mark, within which lay a harbour city Sirus had only ever seen in books.
“Stockcombe,” he said, noting the fleet in the harbour. His attention was immediately drawn to the only warship present, an unusual design in that it lacked paddles. The Red capturing the image evidently sensed a similar significance in the warship for its gaze focused on the upper decks. Sirus saw a tall man standing there, spy-glass raised as he returned the drake’s scrutiny.
“Many ships can carry many Blacks,” Catheline said. Sirus could sense a desperate need for guidance in her, powerful enough to birth a compulsion to cooperate that no amount of fear or inner resolve could dispel.
“There are still drakes left in Arradsia,” he said. “Are there not?”
“Thousands,” she replied. “Those that couldn’t be gathered for the crusade. But they’re scattered.”
“Gather them now,” he advised. “Send all you can to Stockcombe. Without a fleet the Blacks won’t be going anywhere.”
“But the Blacks might get there first. The harbour could be empty by the time an assault could be made.”
“As I said, there’s a great deal of ocean separating this continent from that one. And we have a means of commanding the ocean, do we not? A means not required for our current campaign.”
The Blues were dispatched that evening, each of them filled with the desire to make for southern Arradsia and sink any ship they found. Previously they had been engaged in blockading the Red Tides in order to prevent the Varestians acquiring supplies or reinforcements from elsewhere. Marshal Morradin had contested the move, arguing that limiting the enemy’s sea-borne communications would have a crucial effect on the land campaign. Sirus considered the marshal had been lucky that Catheline’s punishment for dissent amounted to only a five-minute bout of agony, her mood being so fraught and intolerant of argument.
She’s frightened, he knew. Or rather, she is the vessel of the White’s fear. The Blacks, those Contractors, Lizanne Lethridge. He fears them all.
The next two days brought an unexpected increase in numbers when they encountered a town where the inhabitants had taken the admirable if unwise decision to defend their homes rather than flee. They had made strenuous efforts to fortify the place with a line of trench works and an impressive array of cannon, the place being home to an Imperial armaments works.
“A grand battery of cannon and a host of new recruits,” Morradin said with grim relish as he reordered his columns for an assault. “What a generous gift they have made for us.”
Whilst the town had many with the skills to manufacture cannon, it transpired they had few skilled in using them. Morradin spent the day surrounding the place and sending small forays towards the defensive lines to entice the town’s gunners into revealing their positions, which many obligingly proceeded to do before nightfall. In the small hours of the morning Reds were used to drop parties of Spoiled on all the pin-pointed batteries. They were all swiftly seized and the captured cannon duly turned on the defenders. Informed by one party of raiders of a stretch of line which had suffered the most casualties, Morradin sent forward twenty thousand Spoiled in a massed attack. At the same time he assailed the rest of the line with small-scale attacks to prevent the defenders switching forces to contest the main assault.
It was over before dawn save for some street skirmishes in the town itself. By the afternoon Veilmist reported another twenty-five thousand additions to their ranks for the cost of less than two thousand casualties. For once Morradin was happy to share his thoughts. Neatest and most complete victory I ever won, he told Sirus as they toured the southern fringes of the town. The marshal’s mind seemed to shine with satisfaction at his own tactical acumen. Sirus found it distasteful to share in such self-regard but also recognised that Morradin was at his core a man who relished command in battle. Expecting him not to take pride in such a victory was like expecting a carpenter not to take pride in a perfectly crafted table.
“I doubt there will be any more neat victories ahead,” Sirus said aloud in Eutherian, nodding at the mountains jutting above the southern horizon. This town was the last settlement of reasonable size to be found north of the peaks marking the boundary between the Corvantine Empire proper and its lost dominion of Varestia.
“The passes,” Morradin grunted, Sirus feeling his mood darken. “Where, if our enemy has any brains at all, they will seek to kill as many of us as they can, if not halt us completely.”
“How would you defend them?”
Morradin’s lip curled in the sardonic grin of a professional suffering the questions of an amateur. “I wouldn’t. I’d block them, force us to waste time clearing them or make for the coastal route to the east. Numbers won’t count for much there. Mountains on our right flank and the sea on our left with only a few miles frontage. No room for manoeuvre, for us or them. If they choose to fight us there that will be a bloody day indeed.”
Sirus summoned his fear at this last statement, using it to conceal the mental communication that followed, speaking aloud as he did so. “We’ll use Reds to drop Spoiled, seize the heights covering the largest pass.” Have you thought any more about my proposal?
“We can expect some nasty surprises waiting for them.” A proposal is one thing, boy. A plan is another. As yet I see no prospect of one emerging.
“Scouting parties will go ahead. We’ll only commit to the assault when we know the way is clear.” She’s afraid, so is He. Something’s coming, something that will change our fortunes, I’m sure of it. But we need to buy time.
“It might be better to avoid the passes altogether, or at least mount a feinting attack. Make them think we’re heading for the mountains whilst we steal a march by immediately making for the coast.” One more failure and she could well kill one of us, or both. And you can bet it won’t be quick.
“We’ll put both options to her. She can decide.” I saw something the other day. He shared the memory of the old man inciting his fellow doomed left-behinds to engage in one last act of defiance. A man who accepts the necessity of sacrifice need never be afraid.
Easy to say when it’s not you doing the sacrificing.
Sirus cast another glance at the distant peaks before turning away. He started back to the village where the screams of the captured children were rising into the morning air, determined to witness it all. It will be.