CHAPTER 43
Sirus
He didn’t so much wake from unconsciousness as be dragged from it. Get up! Catheline’s voice in his head, curt and undeniable in its authority, banishing the vague images that had begun to coalesce into a dream. Despite the immediate plethora of pain that greeted his awakened body, he was still grateful she had spared him the dream, Katrya’s face having been at the forefront of it.
He sat up slowly, displacing the soil that covered him and taking in his surroundings. The soles of his boots were only a few inches away from the edge of a large crater some twenty feet across. Hovering above the crater were the four crystals, glowing bright at first but then beginning to flicker. As Sirus watched, the flicker increased whilst their glow diminished. They fell when the glow faded, landing on the partially scorched earth near by to be swiftly scooped up by a number of Spoiled.
“I hope you kept his memories,” he heard Catheline say and turned to see her standing over a corpse. Morradin hadn’t been as fortunate as Sirus. The upper half of his body lay outside the crater but what remained of the lower half lay within it, reduced to little more than a smear of ash shot through with patches of red. For a moment Sirus entertained the impossible notion that there might be some vestige of the marshal still lingering in his mind and reached out to try and find it. Of course there was only the cold silence of death. Grand Marshal Morradin, perhaps the finest military mind of his age, a singularly horrible human being and a worse Spoiled, was truly dead.
An enemy and ally both, Sirus thought amidst the welter of fear that followed. What must be done will be done by me alone.
“Didn’t know you two were so close,” Catheline commented, moving nearer and offering her hand.
“We weren’t,” he said, taking her hand and getting to his feet. “But his talents will be missed.”
Catheline’s gaze became guarded, red-black eyes downcast as she nodded to the crater. “I think we have a far greater loss to mourn.”
The White lay in the centre of the crater, body curled around three mangled forms. The infant Whites were mostly whole but clearly dead, thick gore leaking from slack and open mouths as the White nuzzled them, letting out a sound Sirus hadn’t heard from it before. It was somewhere between a whine and a rumble, the pitch of it sharp enough to pain the ears. More than the sound he could feel it seeping into his own thoughts; the raw pain of a grieving parent. The two surviving infants crouched near by, tails twitching and eyes darting nervously about.
“She got away, you know,” Catheline said. “The Lethridge bitch. A Blood-blessed in one of their flying contraptions picked her up.”
“She failed,” Sirus said, nodding at the White.
“This time. We can take no more chances, General. We must end this. In the past I have allowed my emotions to guide us. That was my error, for which I expect I’ll soon be punished. You will formulate a plan to ensure our victory beyond any doubt and I will implement it regardless of how long it might take. This army is now yours.”
The calamity in the Grand Cut and the rocket attack had cost the army twelve thousand Spoiled and two thousand drakes. The Greens bore the brunt of the losses thanks to the speed with which they had charged into the pass, but the Reds had also suffered greatly, losing close to a third of their number. It was a stark illustration to Sirus that the drakes were a finite resource. They had been the key to victory in so many engagements but every battle reduced their strength. And when they’re all gone, he mused amidst a carefully modulated pall of fear, all He will have is an army of Spoiled. An army led by me.
Veilmist reported that, even after such a setback, the overall strength of the army stood at close to one hundred and eighty thousand. However, Sirus found it an easy matter to convince Catheline they needed to increase their strength yet further. “Our enemy is clearly more resourceful than we could ever have expected,” he told her. “Every time we meet them they reveal a new and more deadly novelty. We have no ships that fly in the air, no rockets of unfeasible accuracy, nor can I find a mind in our ranks capable of producing them. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned from Marshal Morradin was the importance of numbers. We need to overwhelm our enemy. Attack in such strength no amount of invention can save them.”
The three columns set off the following day, making for regions Veilmist identified as possessing the most-developed agriculture. “Thousands fled our advance,” Sirus explained to Catheline. “People have to eat. It stands to reason they would flee to where they expect to find food.”
Each of the columns was led by a contingent of tribal Spoiled as they possessed the most honed tracking skills. They were under orders to avoid large-scale engagements and kill only when necessary. Their success was rapid and surprising even to Sirus. It appeared that, having avoided the passage of the White’s army, many refugees had naïvely assumed they were gone for good. Several large groups were captured in the open as they attempted to return to their homes. Reds also prowled the skies, scouting the locations of refugee camps in the hills. These would then be set upon from the air and the fleeing people herded by pursuing Greens into the arms of the Spoiled. The most fruitful area of recruitment lay in the farmland north-east of the Neck. Here most people lived on plantations rather than villages, meaning they were too small and sparsely occupied to be easily fortified. With their farm buildings and crops set alight the people had no option but to flee, once again continually harassed by Greens into following a pre-chosen route.
Once a decent number of captives had been harvested Sirus would take the Blue crystal and climb onto Katarias’s back. Escorting a large contingent of unwilling captives across miles of country was a troublesome business. It was far more preferable to fly to the column’s location and convert them in place. Once all the recruits were converted they would begin the orderly march south to join the main body of the army.
Sirus had persuaded Catheline to limit the drakes’ habitual liking for hunting down the children and elderly left over after a large-scale capture, arguing that it was a waste of time and made the unconverted prisoners harder to handle. This had the result of littering the country-side with large numbers of orphans and old people. Usually the children would flee whilst the oldsters stood around in helpless shock. On a few rare occasions the children would linger in the vicinity, crying out to their converted parents as they marched away, deaf to their tearful pleading.
After three weeks Veilmist reported a total of thirty-eight thousand fresh recruits, more than sufficient to make good their losses and swell the ranks for the advance. Will it be enough? Catheline asked, her new-found caution at the forefront of the thought she pushed into Sirus’s mind. We can send the columns farther north if necessary.
Marching north will increase the risk of encountering large-scale opposition, Sirus replied. There are a number of port-towns on the Varestian Peninsular. They will undoubtedly have been evacuated by now but there are sure to be more recruits in the outlying villages. Veilmist estimates a further yield of ten to fifteen thousand. Thanks to the Imperial arsenal we captured we have weapons enough for all. If employed correctly, an army of this size and discipline can have no equal.
She gave a faint pulse of amusement. Is that eagerness, General? I thought Morradin was the bloodthirsty one.
He didn’t need to summon any fear to mask the intent behind his reply, it being entirely sincere. I should hate to leave this task undone.
As expected the first port they came to was empty. It was more of a large fishing village than a port, its streets silent and small harbour devoid of ships. The Varestians had seen fit to raise the harbour door and disable its mechanism, ensuring the docks were subsequently inundated by the tide and rendered useless. An extensive search revealed hardly a scrap of food or ammunition, the only living inhabitants a few cats, dogs and a far larger number of rats. Catheline, in an increasingly rare display of pique, ordered the place burned to the ground and the army marched on beneath skies darkened by a tall column of black smoke.
For once Veilmist’s calculations proved to be substantially wide of the mark for the Varestians had been efficient, even ruthless in clearing the outlying villages of inhabitants. Scouting parties reported a number of corpses amongst the empty houses and farms, each one with their throat slit or a single bullet through the head.
“They know us now,” Sirus concluded when Catheline expressed her puzzlement at the murders. “Every living adult who refuses to leave is a potential recruit, so they are determined not to leave any.”
Another thousand additional recruits were rooted out of the small farms in the hill-country to the west, but Sirus judged most were too scattered to justify the time and effort needed to capture them all. The army moved on, the neat ranks of Spoiled following the coast south in a single huge column with Greens on the flanks and Reds above and scouting ahead. Their line of march took them past yet more empty villages and another two abandoned ports. The last one appeared to have been evacuated in haste, the Varestians leaving the harbour doors undamaged and a large amount of stores in the dock-side warehouses, including food and a quantity of small-arms ammunition. A Spoiled working party several hundred strong had begun to prepare the supplies for transport when the entire warehouse district erupted in a series of explosions.
“Sneaky bastards,” Catheline commented as they stood together on the town walls watching the fires rage in the dockside. There wasn’t much heat to her words, just sour observation. “It appears everything I heard about Varestians was true.”
“Casualties could have been worse,” Sirus said, turning away to scan the country to the south. “I’m more concerned by the lack of serious opposition. They must surely have organised a defence by now. But the Reds report nothing to the south for another hundred miles.” He switched his gaze to the sea, eyes tracking along the empty horizon. “The lack of sea-borne attacks is also odd. For such renowned seafarers the Varestians seemed strangely reluctant to risk their ships, especially given the absence of the Blues.”
“Conserving their strength,” Catheline concluded. “Intending to meet us in one great battle. How pleasingly dramatic.”
“Morradin said it would be a bloody day when our forces met theirs.”
Catheline moved closer, pressing a kiss to his scaled cheek, whispering, “The bloodier the better, dearest General. He hungers for it, you see. We now serve a vengeful god.”
Three days’ march brought them into sight of a stretch of black sand that extended from the shore-line to the fast-flowing river four miles to the west. Beyond the river the steep and equally black slopes of a mountain ensured there was no easy route around this barrier. Sirus was therefore unsurprised when the Reds flew over and discovered the enemy present in impressive strength on the southern fringe of the Sands.
“I once had a lover,” Catheline said as she and Sirus strolled along the edge of the Sands, “an artist, who contended that all nature was beautiful. If he had seen this place I suspect he might have formed a different opinion.”
Sirus crouched to scoop up a handful of black grains, finding it rich in the small gleaming stones that gave this place its name. Unlike Catheline he found the way the Sands contrasted so starkly with the landscape fascinating. “Mount Alkus,” he said, nodding at the peak to the west. “An occasionally active volcano. Every hundred years or so it coughs up a good deal of lava and ash, the Jet Sands are the result.” He rose, letting the sand fall from his hand as he surveyed the undulating ground ahead. The dunes were over ten feet tall in places, robbing an attacker of a forward view whilst providing a defender an easy target when they came to the top. Plus, the looseness of the footing ensured any infantry attack would be a highly sluggish affair.
“Whoever Miss Lethridge has commanding her forces clearly knows their business,” Sirus said. “They couldn’t have chosen better ground for a defensive engagement.”
“Another trap then?” Catheline asked.
“Very much so.” He shared the image of the enemy line the Reds had captured earlier. They had been forced to fly high due to the storm of fire from the repeating guns, one falling victim to the barrage before it could gain sufficient height. The image showed at most six battalions of infantry and several batteries of cannon at the eastern end of the Sands whilst more could be seen marching up from the south. The enemy line grew thicker the farther west it went, bristling with cannon and repeating guns.
“A decent-sized force,” Catheline commented. “But they’re not yet fully in position.”
“It’s a ruse,” Sirus said, shaking his head. “They want us to attack close to the shore. As soon as we do I expect their ships will suddenly appear on the horizon whilst their airships assail us from above.”
“Then avoid it. Attack elsewhere.”
“On this ground, any point we attack will result in considerable losses.”
“Really?” He felt a murmur of scorn from her, and detected a tinge of acid to her tone when she asked, “What would Morradin have done?”
“He was a commander who never shied from the butcher’s bill, to be sure. And I suspect he would have been of the opinion that once you spring a trap, it can’t be sprung again.”
“You’re suggesting we simply do what the enemy expects?” Catheline gave a derisive laugh. “Even one with my meagre military knowledge knows that to be a mistake.”
“I do indeed suggest we do just that,” Sirus replied, stepping forward to press his boot into the sand. It sank into the soft surface to a depth of three inches. Bad ground for a human, he concluded. But not a drake. “Then,” he went on, turning to her with a smile, “I suggest we do something else entirely. I believe it’s time our army had a cavalry arm.”
He waited for dusk before launching the assault, reasoning that the enemy would surely have suspected something if he had attacked in full daylight. The lead battalions advanced across the dunes in a slow steady march behind a screen of skirmishers, kept in step by their mental connection, which allowed for two continuous unbroken lines of nearly a half mile in length. There were over forty thousand Spoiled in the first wave, with more lined up behind in a densely packed, well-ordered mass. As the advance progressed Sirus sent his cannon forward, teams of Spoiled man-handling the guns over the dunes to form a large single battery on the right flank. In accordance with their orders they began to fire on the enemy line immediately, concentrating their shells on the supposedly thinly held section of the opposing line close to the shore. They were firing at the limit of the guns’ range and their accuracy was therefore poor, but Sirus hoped this would at least convince the enemy commander of his intent.
Above the dunes the Reds patrolled in a dense swarm, Sirus deliberately holding them back as insurance against the appearance of the airships. Although few in number, the fire-power of these novel contraptions had been amply demonstrated at the Grand Cut. The Greens, having the most crucial role to play, he kept well to rear, awaiting the critical moment.
As expected, a line of Varestian ships appeared on the horizon as the Spoiled advance reached the halfway point to their objective. The enemy fleet approached in two divisions, steaming towards the coast at high speed then performing a sharp turn either north or south to present their broadsides to the shore. Sirus was surprised to see a number of Corvantine Imperial frigates amongst them, displaying an impressive accuracy and rapidity of fire as they unleashed their guns at the advancing Spoiled. Added to this was the fire of the enemy cannon arrayed along the southern side of the Sands. Wisely ignoring Sirus’s grand battery, they concentrated their fire on the infantry assault to devastating effect.
All along the ranks of Spoiled black sand blossomed in huge gouts as the shells struck home, Sirus feeling at least four of his soldiers die with every blast. But still the two lines advanced, shrinking in the process as the Spoiled reordered themselves to fill the gaps in their ranks. The enemy’s repeating guns began firing shortly after. Via the eyes of a Red, Sirus saw the human infantry casting aside earth-covered tarpaulins to spring up from previously unseen trenches, quickly manoeuvring the multibarrelled weapons into position. Their fire was rapid and accurate. The mass of bullets and cannon shells cut through the first rank of Spoiled like a huge invisible scythe. In response to Sirus’s mental command, the survivors, barely two thousand strong, commenced a charge towards the enemy line. They sprinted the remaining distance to their objective with all the speed their remade bodies would permit, falling by the dozen with every few yards covered. Only about a hundred reached the enemy trenches, all of whom were swiftly cut or shot down in the brief close-quarters fight that followed. Sirus ordered the second line to charge shortly after, with similar results, then noted with satisfaction that the light was fading fast.
He ordered another ten battalions forward, sending half of them around the battery in the centre of the dunes with orders to make for the extreme left of the enemy line. He hoped this would lead the enemy commander to assume he had learned his mistake and was attempting to probe for weaknesses elsewhere. As the second wave passed by the battery, suffering only marginally fewer casualties than the first from the enemy ships and cannon, he summoned the Greens forward. They had been kept a mile to the rear and well inland, beyond the sight of any reconnaissance. Sirus turned to watch them loping past his vantage point atop a hill a few hundred yards from the Sands. Every Green in the White’s thrall had been enlisted in this attack and they streamed past in a huge pack, every one carrying a Spoiled on its back.
Once the Greens were on the Sands Sirus ordered the Spoiled to the left of the battery into a dense formation ten ranks deep and sent them charging full pelt towards the enemy trenches. Rifle fire and repeating guns tore the first four ranks to pieces in short order, the Spoiled behind leaping their comrades’ bodies and keeping on, bayonet-tipped rifles gleaming in the two-moon night. The charge was doomed, of course, only the last rank of Spoiled reaching the trenches where they all fell in a brief but savage hand-to-hand struggle, a struggle that prevented the human defenders from noticing the huge pack of Spoiled-mounted Greens boiling across the dunes.
Some repeating guns managed to loose a hail of bullets into the onrushing mass of drakes, cutting down dozens in a matter of seconds, but the momentum of the charge proved unstoppable. The drakes tore through the trenches in a welter of fire, tooth and claw, the Spoiled on their backs leaping away as soon as they were clear of the Sands. They quickly formed into companies and launched an immediate attack on human defenders to their left. They had been ordered to concentrate on silencing the repeating guns and moved from trench to trench in relays, putting rifle and bayonet to murderously efficient use.
Gauging the moment had come, Sirus set the remaining battalions in motion, over one hundred thousand Spoiled starting forward at the run. A few battalions were sent into the teeth of the ship guns and cannon directly to their front, Sirus being keen to ensure the enemy commander didn’t have the chance to shift any forces. The bulk of the army veered to the west, keeping close to the river as they charged for the gap the Green cavalry had torn in the enemy line.
Wonderful. Catheline’s exultation and triumph sang in his head along with a not-inconsiderable measure of lust. How could I ever have doubted you?
The images captured by the thousands of eyes in the army played through their conjoined minds with nightmarish clarity. A Varestian continuing to swing his sabre despite the six bayonets that pinned him to the earth. A woman stumbling across the sand with her intestines trailing from a gaping stomach wound. A knot of defenders clustered around a repeating cannon, continuing to fire until the Greens closed in and bathed them in fire.
It was hard to make sense of the situation amidst so much horror but Sirus soon divined that the enemy had been engaged all along the line and the stocks of ammunition and reserves to their rear were also under attack.
Send the Reds, Catheline commanded, her thoughts riven with so much eagerness for the slaughter Sirus winced in pain. And the reserves. Finish it!
Not yet, he insisted. Resistance is still fierce. The Reds must be preserved for the pursuit.
He felt her gathering her will to override his objection, fed by the White’s vast need for vengeance, but the argument was rendered irrelevant when a blinding white light blossomed in the sky.
It hung in the air trailing sparks, casting its glow across the dunes. Flare, Sirus realised, his Spoiled eyes piercing the haze of light to make out the shape of the parachute above the blazing pyrotechnic. Two more blazed into light a split-second later, bathing the entire battlefield in a glow bright enough to banish all shadows. Sirus shielded his eyes, squinting as he focused on the black space beyond the flares, and was soon rewarded with the sight of a large, curved shape descending from the gloom.
The enemy’s airships had finally arrived.