CHAPTER 38
Sirus
He could feel Catheline’s mingled terror and anger as he made the suggestion that the surviving Greens and Reds should scatter. She had called him to her command tent to oversee the assault on Stockcombe. Given that it was an all-drake affair she would act as conduit whilst Sirus supplied the tactical direction. Linking minds with her was always a disconcerting experience, like sinking into a constantly shifting swamp of muted emotion whilst beneath it all the vast will of the White rumbled and smoked like a fractious volcano.
Sirus couldn’t help a perverse pride in both the conception and execution of his plan, making him ponder the unwelcome notion that he might have absorbed some of Morradin’s characteristics. His opponent at Stockcombe had evidently been a capable commander, the booby traps and the mines in the harbour were an unpleasant and costly surprise, as was the fierce resistance of the ships. But he had learned by now that it was always a sound strategy to subvert the expectations of one’s enemy. In compelling the Reds to mount a ground assault rather than attack from the air, he had done exactly that. Victory would undoubtedly have been his had not the Blacks arrived.
After hours of hopeless resistance, during which Catheline’s mind continued to communicate the death agonies of hundreds of drakes, Sirus had been forced to withdraw from their shared connection. “We can’t win this,” he said simply. “If He wishes to preserve their lives, they should scatter.”
Her red-black eyes bore into him with such intensity he wondered if she had suddenly decided to hate him. But then she reached out to capture his mind once more and he realised her expression was born of concern rather than hatred. For the first time he was able to fully experience her communion with the White. There were no words, no shared images, just an exchange of emotion so rapid it sent a jolt of pain through his mind. Somehow, despite the pain, he was able to discern the essence of this communication:
Failure.
Reproach.
Contrition.
Anger.
Deeper contrition.
Need to punish.
Acceptance . . . and supplication.
For a brief moment he managed to make out a coherent thought as Catheline ensured her message was unambiguous. He is still needed. My failure. My punishment. There was no pause before the White responded: Concurrence.
Sirus let out a groan as Catheline released her mental hold, seeing her offer him a sad smile and a shrug. “This time He would have killed you,” she said.
Abruptly she stiffened, arching like a bow, limbs shuddering as her head snapped back. Her body was so rigid she couldn’t even fall from her chair. Sirus forced himself to watch as she convulsed, blood spouting from her mouth and streaming from her nose. The sudden appearance of more blood beneath her chair indicating she was bleeding from all orifices. It continued for what seemed an age, so long in fact that her finely tailored cavalry uniform became drenched in blood and Sirus felt certain she would soon have no more left to give. The notion raised an important question: If she dies, what then?
But she didn’t die. Finally, when her skin had taken on an alabaster hue and the blood had begun to pool on the carpet, she collapsed. Sirus leapt forward to catch her as she fell, lifting her easily in his remade arms. Catheline’s eyelids fluttered as she shivered in his grasp, her lips forming a smile as she raised a hand to caress his scaled cheek. “My hero,” she whispered before fainting.
There were few foot-hills north of the pass known as the Grand Cut, the mountains rearing up out of the grassy plains in sudden, sheer-sided majesty. The pass itself was a broad canyon that narrowed considerably as it proceeded deeper into the range of peaks dominating the region the Varestians called “the Neck.” Reconnaissance flights by Reds the day before had confirmed the smaller passes to the east and west closed by rubble. The Grand Cut, however, remained open.
“An obvious trap,” Morradin growled, squinting at the pass and the clouds lingering over the cliffs that formed its flanks. “Expected better of them.”
“You’re sure?” Catheline asked. She had recovered quickly from the previous night’s punishment, colour having returned to her face and her bearing displaying scant sign of fatigue. Sirus detected a new wariness in her, however. In place of her ruined uniform she wore a simple muslin dress, a thick woollen shawl about her shoulders, which were slightly hunched. He also noted the tightness of her grip on the shawl, the knuckles bone-white.
“We go in there, we’ll pay for it,” Morradin asserted. “In blood.”
Catheline raised an eyebrow at Sirus, letting out an exasperated hiss when he gave a nod of confirmation. “Very well,” she said, turning away. “The scenic route it is . . .”
She trailed off as a loud boom sounded from the Grand Cut. Turning back Sirus saw a large grey cloud rising above the mountain mist, followed a second later by a thick pall of dust issuing from the mouth of the pass.
“What was that?” Catheline demanded.
Morradin’s brows knitted in bemusement as he raised a spy-glass to scan the pass. “Looks as if they’ve blocked it anyway,” he said when the dust had cleared. He continued to peer through the glass then straightened in surprise. “Or at least tried to. Bloody thing’s still open.”
Sirus extended his own glass and trained it on the Grand Cut. Morradin was right, there was a good deal of rubble littering the floor of the pass but it was far from blocked.
“Miscalculated their charge, perhaps?” Morradin said as he and Sirus exchanged glances. “Or blew themselves up trying to rig it.”
“It could still be a trap,” Sirus said. “Bait to lure us in.”
“The Reds will find out soon enough,” Catheline said. A trio of Reds flew overhead a few seconds later, wings sweeping in broad arcs as they climbed into the mist. Catheline shared the view through the eyes of the lead Red as it flew over the pass. As I thought, Morradin commented in satisfaction at the sight of numerous armed figures dotting the rocky terrain atop the cliffs. Sirus estimated their number at three hundred at most. Hardly the kind of force he would have expected if their enemy intended to inflict serious harm.
Unless they want the pass to do it for them, Morradin mused, reading his thoughts. Wait until we march in then bring the mountains down on top of us. A pulse of grim amusement. Looks like they pissed on their own breakfast with this one.
It could still . . . Sirus began but his thought was swallowed by a sudden upsurge of excitement from Catheline.
She’s here!
The Red’s vision of the pass sprang into more vivid life, focusing on a particular figure standing at the cliff-edge. Thanks to the power of drake sight they were soon confronted with a close-up view of the figure’s features. Lizanne Lethridge stared back at them through the Red’s eyes, a smile of grim mockery on her lips. She moved slightly and the image refocused, drawing back to reveal the sight of her raising a carbine to her shoulder. The muzzle flared in a bright orange plume and the vision went black. The absence of the usual confusion and pain indicated the Red had died instantly.
“Bitch,” Catheline breathed in a tone of hungry malice. Her gaze flashed at Sirus and Morradin, the red pupils seeming to glow like coals. “Get in there! Send all of them!”
Her will was implacable and shot through with the White’s irresistible blood-lust. Every Red leapt into the sky as the Spoiled battalions started forward. The Greens charged in two huge packs on the flanks, every mind, Spoiled and drake, filled with a single purpose: KILL HER!