CHAPTER 37
Clay
It seemed as if half of Stockcombe was already alight by the time Lutharon swept over the outer wall. Fires raged on both sides of the falls and he could see people running through the streets on the eastern side. At first it appeared to be the chaotic end of another city fallen to the White’s malice, but then he saw smoke-plumes rising from the cannon on the ships in the harbour. To Clay’s bemusement they were firing into the eastern districts of the city, the shells falling amidst the houses closest to the rim of the crater. As Lutharon flew closer, however, he saw Reds leaping from one roof-top to another, belching flame at the people running in the streets below. He saw one Red blasted in half by a direct hit from a cannon shell, but there were dozens, perhaps hundreds more still scrambling over the lip of the crater. Fortunately, it appeared none had noticed Lutharon’s arrival.
Clay had already filled his fist with vials of Red, Green and Black. He drank them all now then glanced over his shoulder to ensure Kriz was doing the same. He leaned forward, placing a hand on Lutharon’s neck with the intent of guiding his attack but the Black needed no instruction tonight. Folding his wings, Lutharon angled his body in a near-vertical dive, Clay finding himself thankful for the Green he had imbibed as the slip-stream might otherwise have torn his grip from the neck spines. Lutharon flared his wings and tilted back as they neared the roof-tops, claws stabbing down to pierce the hide of an unsuspecting Red. It struggled frantically, tail lashing at Lutharon’s hide, close enough for Clay to reel away from a whip-crack an inch from his ear. Lutharon clamped his jaws on the Red’s neck and snapped it with a swift wrenching jerk.
Rearing back from the kill, Lutharon raised his head to the sky and let out a loud, summoning roar. The great host of Blacks circling above responded without hesitation, streaking out of the gloom in a dark torrent. To Clay’s eyes it seemed as if the night sky were reaching down to pour a shadow over the city. Red after Red was crushed under the weight of the assault, some tried vainly to take to the skies only to be caught and dragged back into the tearing, rending maelstrom.
The rain of Black drakes swept over the upper districts, swallowing Reds as it did so, then spilling over the lip of the crater to assail those still charging across the plain beyond. The mind controlling the drake assault evidently realised the danger at that point for the sky beyond the edge of the crater suddenly became filled with Reds as they abandoned their ground assault. The Blacks began to take off in response, leaving behind a host of slaughtered drakes.
Clay communicated to Lutharon the need to wait as he and Kriz slipped from his back and hurried to a safe distance. “They’re all yours, big fella,” Clay told him as Lutharon crouched then launched himself upwards, his wings birthing a gale as he climbed into the darkness.
“Come on,” Clay told Kriz. “We gotta find the captain.”
They leapt from one building to another, sailing over streets thronged with panicked people, Clay constantly searching for someone in authority. He soon happened upon a crew of fire-fighters attempting to contain a blaze raging in a two-storey tenement. “Hilemore?” he said, leaping down to shout into the ear of the youth who seemed to be in charge.
“That way,” the youngster shouted in response, pointing to another blaze burning a few streets ahead. Clay and Kriz ran on, dodging past fleeing townsfolk who as yet failed to recognise the fact that their deliverance had arrived.
They rounded a corner into a small square where Clay’s gaze immediately alighted on Hilemore’s unmistakable form. The captain stood over a large Red, surrounded by bodies in various states of burnt dismemberment. A girl of about eighteen knelt close by, face frozen and expressionless despite the tears streaming from her eyes. As he drew closer, Clay saw that the Red was still alive despite the numerous bullet-holes in its hide. Its wings flapped feebly and its claws dug into the cobbles as it sought to raise itself, and might have done so had Hilemore not raised a revolver and put a bullet through its skull.
“Captain,” Clay called out, running to his side.
Hilemore’s face was grim as he glanced at Clay and offered a muttered greeting. “Mr. Torcreek. I had hoped to see you earlier in the evening.”
“Blacks can only fly so fast.” Watching Hilemore’s gaze track over the surrounding corpses, rich in guilt, he asked, “Friends of yours, huh?”
“The Wash Lane Defence Volunteers,” Hilemore replied. He went to the kneeling girl, crouching to gently pull her to her feet, murmuring, “It’s done, Jillett. We won.”
The girl closed her eyes and stepped away from him, hugging herself tight. “What did they win?” she asked in a sob, jerking her head at the bodies. Hilemore had no answer for her and she sagged a little in mingled sorrow and exhaustion.
“Here,” Kriz said, coming forward to take hold of the girl, offering a vial of Green. “This will help.”
Jillett made a faint effort to shrug her off, but allowed herself to be guided to a near by bench where she drank down the Green.
“We killed the first one we found easily enough,” Hilemore was saying in a faint distant voice, his gaze now fixed on the Red he had shot. “This one was different. Jillett tried to hold it with Black but it was just too fast, too strong . . .”
Clay coughed, finding he didn’t particularly care for this version of the captain. Much as they grated on each other the man’s unerring will and discipline had long been a source of reassurance.
Hilemore blinked and straightened, turning back to him. “There are still Greens on the other side of the falls and in the harbour,” he said, holstering his revolver. “They’ll need to be dealt with.”
“Our friends’ll take care of it,” Clay assured him. “Gonna need you to make sure the folks here don’t shoot at them. Think you can do that?”
Hilemore’s expression hardened into a gratifyingly familiar frown. “Of course,” he snapped and marched off, heading south to the harbour. “We’ll need help fighting these fires,” he added over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”
The battle between Red and Black raged in the skies over Stockcombe for nearly an hour, swift moonlit shapes soaring and diving against a back-drop of stars. Occasionally the struggle would be illuminated by a concordance of flame. Human spectators were briefly presented with the sight of a dozen or more drakes assailing each other in a whirling knot of lashing tails and stabbing claws, before the flames died and all became confusion once more. Drakes fell into the harbour throughout it all, trailing smoke as they plummeted down. Most were dead but a few struggled on the surface for a time, screaming out distress calls until the water pulled them down.
By dawn all the Reds appeared to have either fled or fallen and the Blacks turned their attention to the Greens still prowling the western side of the city. They swooped down in successive relays, plucking Greens from the streets, crushing them with claws and teeth before casting the bodies away and diving down for more. When sunlight crested the edge of the crater Clay saw a steady stream of Greens fleeing over the western wall. Apparently the unseen hand that commanded them had finally allowed a retreat.
In the aftermath Stockcombe lay silent under a pall of smoke. The ships sat in harbour waters painted a dull red in the meagre light. There was no celebration amongst the townsfolk, no upsurge of joy in victory. Many stood or huddled together, soot-stained faces blank with shock whilst others wandered aimlessly, staring at the blackened ruins of homes or businesses. The children were an exception, clustering around the many drake corpses and chattering in excitement as they poked them with sticks, sometimes scurrying back in delighted alarm when they twitched in response.
The Blacks continued to patrol the skies above the city, drawing many a concerned and wary eye. Clay had communicated to Lutharon the need to keep out of rifle-range along with a stern warning against perching in the city itself. Instead the Blacks came to rest on the walls along the crater rim, bodies turned towards the rising sun and wings spread to catch the warmth.
Captain Hilemore, seemingly immune to fatigue, organised working parties from the Superior and the merchant ships to assist in clearing the worst of the rubble from the streets and extinguishing the few remaining fires. He also enlisted the large number of harvesters in the port to extract product from the bountiful supply of corpses littering the streets and the surrounding country, raising a somewhat problematic question in the process.
“We’ll need it,” Hilemore said. “This war isn’t over, Mr. Torcreek. As you well know.”
Clay looked at the corpse of the Black lying on the eastern quayside. It was an adult female some twenty feet long, congealed blood covering the wounds in her hide from numerous Red tail strikes. There were others to be found in the city and the harbour waters, a valuable resource to Hilemore’s eyes.
In truth Clay wasn’t sure how the Blacks would react to the harvesting of their dead. Whilst he was well aware of their capacity for grief, unlike humans they didn’t seem inclined to keen over the corpses of their kin. Perhaps they don’t need to, he thought. The memories get passed on, leaving the flesh behind, empty and dead. Lutharon seemed indifferent to the matter, his mind preoccupied with scouring the surrounding country for more enemies. Even so, Clay thought it best not to risk antagonising their allies unnecessarily.
“Do it under cover,” he told Hilemore. “And tonight, lessen the chance of their seeing.”
Hilemore called a conference aboard the Superior that evening where he gave a reckoning of the losses suffered and damage done. Altogether, over four hundred people had perished in the fighting with double that number injured, most of the casualties having been inflicted by the Reds. Although Hilemore spoke with his usual brisk authority, Clay could see the guilt behind his eyes.
“Could’ve been a lot worse, Captain,” he told him, heralding a murmur of muted agreement from the others present. Captain Okanas had come, along with Captain Tidelow, as representative of the merchant fleet. There was also the Blood-blessed girl from the square, still somewhat pale of face, and a chunky youth in a Contractor’s duster Clay doubted he had any right to wear. These two represented the Voter rebels who had apparently been engaged in a minor civil war with the young woman in a partially scorched military uniform facing them across the ward-room table. To Clay’s eyes it didn’t appear that the previous night’s events had done much to heal the rift betwixt the two groups.
“With the danger averted,” the young woman, Kulvetch, said when Hilemore fell silent, “my people are keen to return to their homes.”
“Who says it’s averted?” Coll, the chunky youth, returned. “Plenty of drakes still out there.”
“This city now enjoys a very special form of protection,” Kulvetch replied, casting a meaningful glance at Clay.
“This fleet will be sailing for Varestia once the harvesting is complete,” Hilemore said. “Whatever dispositions you wish to make after that are a matter for you.”
“You just gonna leave us?” Coll asked.
“I have discussed the matter with Mr. Torcreek,” Hilemore replied. “He will . . . consult with our allies, requesting that they leave a third of their number here to ward off future attacks.”
“There are those of us,” Jillett said, “who don’t want to stay here any more. What about them?”
“What?” Coll demanded but she ignored him, keeping her gaze on Hilemore.
“We can’t take children,” he said. “Or anyone not of fighting age. We’re sailing into battle, after all.”
“Then I want to volunteer,” she said, continuing to ignore the glowering reaction of her fellow Voter. “And there are plenty more who think like me. The real war needs fighting, and it isn’t here.”
“Very well,” Hilemore said, turning to Kulvetch. “Colonel? Any volunteers from your side of the falls?”
“Forget it, Captain,” Coll said as Kulvetch hesitated. “She’s just itching for you to leave with our best fighters so she can finally take the whole city.”
Kulvetch’s indecision faded abruptly and she straightened into a military bearing. “I will volunteer. Also, I’ve little doubt my Marines will follow me.”
“And they would be very welcome,” Hilemore said, turning back to Coll. “As for those who remain I recommend concentrating your forces in the east side and doing everything you can to fortify the outer wall.” He stepped back from the table. “Harvesting is expected to be complete within two days. Please be prepared to sail by then.” He nodded and started towards the door.
“You think we’re just gonna let you sail off with our best fighters?” Coll demanded, moving to stand in his way. “Our committee answers to the Voters Rights Alli—”
He fell silent as Hilemore’s fist slammed into the centre of his face. Coll’s head snapped back and he fell to all fours, blood streaming from a broken nose. “I have had enough of your infantile politics,” Hilemore said, very precisely. “After all your people suffered last night you still seek to play your games. Were you a member of my crew I would have you shot. In fact . . .” Clay stepped forward as Hilemore’s hand went to his revolver.
“I think that’s meeting adjourned, folks,” Clay said cheerfully, crouching to drag Coll to his feet and pushing him towards the door. “Nice coat,” he said as he hustled him from the room. “Where’d you get it?”
“Here,” Clay said, entering the cabin Kriz shared with Loriabeth. He hadn’t knocked but she didn’t seem to mind. “Gotcha a present.” He set the duster alongside her on the bunk. She had been sitting with her knees drawn up in silent contemplation of the vial of synthetic product. His cousin wasn’t present, which he didn’t find surprising. She and Lieutenant Sigoral hadn’t been seen much since they returned to the ship.
“It’s got blood on it,” Kriz observed, casting a brief glance over the duster. “Fresh blood.”
“Nobody died, don’t worry. And it’ll wash.”
“I thought only members of your . . . profession wore these.”
“Fella who had it before didn’t deserve it. Reckon you’ve earned it.”
He sat himself on the bunk and rested his back against the bulkhead, suddenly weary. It occurred to him that neither of them had slept for close on two days.
“I’m honoured,” Kriz said, her tone vague but genuine. She turned her gaze back to the vial, her other hand gripping the crystal shard about her neck.
“Still tempted, huh?” Clay asked her.
“I have to know, Clay,” she said, slipping into her own language. “Given what we’re about to sail into, there might not be another chance.”
“We already know a lot of it,” he pointed out. “One of the Whites you bred got free somehow. Zembi got Spoiled and Hezkhi flew off to Arradsia in the aerostat.”
“He wanted me to know,” she insisted, holding up the crystal so the light from the port-hole caught its myriad facets. “There’s knowledge in here, important knowledge.”
“Or a trap. He was Spoiled, remember? And he did try to kill you.”
“Part of him was still there, deep inside. I know it. Perhaps”—she gripped the crystal tighter—“in here, also.”
She’s already decided, he realised, seeing the resolve on her face. Short of tying her up there wasn’t much he could do to stop her. “Well, if you have to,” he said, shifting to face her. “But we do this together. You ain’t going in there on your own.”
Kriz seemed about to argue but then swallowed a sigh and nodded. They sat facing each other on the bunk, Clay seeing how she had to still the tremble in her fingers before she could remove the stopper from the vial. She unhooked the crystal from the chain about her neck and set it down on the bunk between them. “Ready?” she asked, vial poised before her lips.
“No, but as you’re gonna do it anyway . . .”
A smile ghosted across her lips and she drank, taking in perhaps a third of the vial’s contents. The reaction was immediate, Kriz stiffening with a sharp intake of breath. The vial slipped from her fingers and Clay’s hand darted forward to catch it before it spilled.
“Kriz?” he asked, receiving no response. She sat in rigid silence, eyes wide open but he knew they saw nothing. Clay blinked as something flashed. Looking down he saw the crystal shard pulsing with light, slow at first but the rhythm building rapidly until it emitted a constant bluish light. Clay returned the stopper to the vial and focused his gaze on Kriz’s blank face, finding the focus needed to summon the Blue-less trance.
It was different than before, Clay finding himself floating in a place without sensation. There was no ground beneath his feet and no air on his skin. The images he saw seemed to play out at a remove, like watching a play. Kriz stood in the chamber where they had found the ruined stone eggs, the place that had become the tomb of her fellow ancient Blood-blessed. When Clay had come here it had been a dark, dust-covered mess of rubble but now it was brightly lit by the crystal floating above the sleeping chambers. He watched Kriz move to each of the chambers, her hand playing over the stone surfaces.
“All the kids are still asleep, I guess,” he said, receiving no response. He called out to her but she didn’t seem to hear as she continued her inspection of the giant eggs. Repeated attempts proved similarly fruitless forcing him to conclude he would have to resign himself to the role of spectator rather than participant.
He saw Kriz start as the crystal flickered, stepping back from the chambers at the sound of grinding stone. The egg-shaped mass to her left began to come apart, leaking fluid over the floor. A naked figure tumbled out as the object became fully segmented. It was a young man, tall and lean, the light from the crystal gleaming on his athletic frame as he slowly rose to his feet
“Hezkhi,” Kriz said, involuntarily reaching out to him. However, this memory appeared both deaf and blind to her presence. His face, a handsome adult version of the boy she had once tutored in the Philos Enclave, was set in a preoccupied frown, his eyes constantly blinking and lips moving in a silent mutter. After a slight pause he returned to the segmented chamber and retrieved a set of sodden clothes, dressing rapidly, then bent to recover a belt holding four flasks. Donning the belt Hezkhi moved to the exit, then stopped, shaking his head as if in confusion. Then, slowly, he turned back and raised his gaze to the crystal hanging above the sleeping chambers.
“Don’t,” Clay heard Kriz say in a gasp, but of course, Hezkhi couldn’t hear her. Taking one of the flasks from his belt he took a hefty gulp and concentrated his gaze on the crystal. It began to emit the tinkling that told of being subjected to Black, but instead of being refashioned into a sculpture it spun violently in the air and let out a loud crack. The light bathing the stone eggs flickered and died, the crystal tumbling to the floor along with the chambers, each one birthing a loud boom as they toppled and rolled.
Clay heard Kriz let out a sob, rich in the kind of despair and grief he remembered from his last visit here. Then she had seen proof of the deaths of her companions, now she had been forced to witness their murder. He wanted to say something to her, reach through the invisible veil separating them to offer comfort. Even the most empty, awkward expression of consolation would have been preferable to impotently witnessing her anguish. But, try as he might, the veil proved impenetrable and he could only watch her stagger, sobbing after Hezkhi as he made his way from the chamber.
The memory blurred and accelerated then, Clay catching only glimpses of the rapid mélange of images that followed; Hezkhi making his way through the mountains to the cliff-face covered in wooden scaffolding . . . taking two eggs from the terraces at the base of the cavernous chamber within . . . drinking more product, Red this time, and bathing both eggs in heat before retreating to a safe distance.
The memory slowed when the eggs hatched, bursting apart like bombs. When the smoke cleared two infant White Drakes sat amidst the shattered shells, chirping as they nuzzled each other. Hezkhi approached to crouch near by and they leapt into his arms, wings flapping in excitement. Seeing how Hezkhi nodded in response, Clay realised he had seen his expression before. Silverpin, he thought. He’s their Silverpin. They were able to call to him even from within the egg.
Hezkhi gave another nod and set the two infants down before moving to the row of crystals, drinking from one of his flasks as he did so. A short pause and then the Blue crystal began to glow, growing brighter as it rose from the chamber floor. Hezkhi spread his arms out wide as the crystal emitted a pulse of light bright enough to swamp the vision. When the light faded Hezkhi had collapsed to his knees, shuddering. Seeing the light play over the scales on his back Clay knew what he would see before Hezkhi raised his face, the yellow eyes, the ridged brows, the spines. The first ever Spoiled, he thought.
The memory blurred again, the images racing by with dizzying speed too fast for Clay to catch. When it slowed again Hezkhi stood over the wet, naked form of an old man. Beyond them a segmented sleeping chamber hovered in the air below a glowing crystal. The two infant Whites snapped at the old man as he slowly heaved himself up, raising his gaze to regard Hezkhi’s deformed visage.
“I grew tired of your prison, Father,” Hezkhi told him. “I have been offered freedom, and a whole world to play in.”
Zembi’s gaze went to the two drakes. They hissed in response, one lashing out with its tail to score a cut into the old man’s arm. “The eggs,” Zembi groaned, his head sagging. “We should have destroyed the eggs.”
“Yes,” Hezkhi agreed. “But you didn’t. They called to me for centuries, Father. Though I fought them, tried to resist their enticements, the many dreams they planted in my mind. When the promises didn’t work they made their dreams into nightmares, but a free mind can wake from a nightmare, and I was not free. For year after year I suffered, and then a very important question occurred to me: Why?” Hezkhi crouched in front of the old man, speaking softly. “Why suffer so much for a man who gave me so little?”
“You’re insane,” Zembi told him. “They drove you mad.”
“They set me free,” Hezkhi corrected in a chiding tone. “Guided me to the facet within the crystal that would unlock the sarcophagus. No longer would I live according to your whim, or Krizelle’s.”
Zembi’s head snapped up at this, eyes bright with alarm and anger.
“Oh don’t worry,” Hezkhi told him. “I intend to leave her very much alive. One day she’ll wake.” He rose and stood back, gesturing at the Blue crystal which floated close by. “And find you waiting for her.”
The Blue crystal flared into life, Zembi letting out a short pain-filled cry that soon choked into a strangled gurgle. When the light faded the old man remained on the floor, convulsing. To Clay it appeared as if the scales on his back were only partially formed, his hands twisting into claws then back again. He’s fighting it, Clay realised.
“A parting gift,” Hezkhi went on, moving to the Blue crystal. He drank from one of his flasks and focused his gaze. A tinkling sound rose as one of the crystal’s spikes separated from the core and floated into Hezkhi’s hand. He stared at the shard for a moment of intense concentration, a faint light flaring then fading within.
“Perhaps you’ll kill her,” he went on, returning to Zembi. “Or she’ll kill you. In which case, I should very much like her to know. She can think about it for however long it takes her to grow old and die down here.”
He opened his hand, offering the shard to Zembi. The old man’s face was contorting now, ridges swelling on his forehead, gritted teeth elongating. It would only be seconds before the transformation was complete.
Clay heard Kriz let out a surprised yelp as Zembi’s hand shot out to grasp the shard then stab it into Hezkhi’s chest. The younger man shouted in pain and shock, reeling away, the shard falling free as he did so. He staggered back, blood leaking from the wound. The two infant Whites set upon Zembi, biting at his flesh in a fury, then stopping abruptly and scurrying back.
Zembi slowly rose to his full height, remade features now firmly in place, a fully converted Spoiled.
“You vicious old bastard!” Hezkhi railed at him, hand clutched over his bleeding chest. But the insults were wasted now, for Zembi replied with only an incurious glance. Hezkhi let out a grunt of impotent fury then reached for another flask, drinking the entire contents in a few urgent gulps.
“It’s not healing right,” he said in an aggrieved whimper, casting a desperate gaze at the two Whites. “The bleeding stopped but it’s not healed. I can feel it.”
The two infants let out an identical hiss and his mouth clamped shut. Hezkhi stood frozen in place as the Whites turned their gaze on Zembi. He blinked and turned back to the sleeping chamber, climbing inside whereupon it closed around him once more. The Whites issued a brief squawk and Hezkhi shuddered. The memory faded into a grey void as he started towards the rear of the chamber in an agonised stumble with the Whites scurrying close behind.
“You were right.”
Clay blinked and found himself back in the cabin. Kriz sat before him, face downcast and tears falling onto the blankets.
“It was a trap,” she went on in a whisper. “I should have left it be.”
“We learned some things we didn’t know before,” Clay said, reaching out to cup her face, thumbing the tears away. “Hezkhi flew them to Arradsia, but his wound must’ve killed him on the way and the aerostat crashed in Krystaline Lake. Sad to say the Whites didn’t drown with him. Somehow they made it out, made their way to the enclave and started making eggs. In time they had a big enough brood to start their war.”
“It doesn’t help us,” she said. “There was nothing there beyond malice, my brother’s need to hurt me.”
“Not true,” Clay said, pulling her closer. “You saw Zembi fight it. We know from Miss Lethridge there were once free Spoiled here. If they can be freed . . .”
His words died as she kissed him. It was long kiss after which she drew back and glanced at the door. “Your cousin isn’t coming back soon, is she?”
“I doubt it.”
Kriz turned back to him, hands moving to unbutton her shirt. “Good.”