CHAPTER 45
Sirus
The glass crunched under his boots as he strode to the centre of the near-perfect circle blasted into the Jet Sands. Hotter than a furnace, he concluded, crouching to retrieve a shard of the glass produced by the heat of the explosion. He found the way it caught the light oddly beautiful, resembling obsidian in its lack of transparency. Casting his gaze around, he could find no corpses within this circle, despite Veilmist’s estimate that over three thousand Spoiled had died at this very spot. The blast and the heat had been so powerful they had simply been vaporised. The first explosion hadn’t been so well placed, claiming only about two thousand Spoiled, but together they had sown enough disruption in the advance to make his victory a flawed one.
Morradin would have been spitting bile, he thought with a grim smile, tossing the shard of glass away and rising as Catheline spoke in his head.
He’s ready, she told him. Best if you hurry. I’ve no idea how long he’ll last.
The captive was the only survivor of the airship the Reds had brought down, plucked from the Sands with near-fatal burns, multiple broken bones and crushed organs. Reasoning that a small experiment would cost nothing, Sirus had him taken to the Blue crystal. After the conversion many of his injuries remained beyond repair, but his brain was still intact.
Where are the airships made? Sirus enquired, staring down at the lopsided face of the newly fashioned Spoiled. The fall had robbed him of a cheek-bone and one of his eyes in addition to shattering his jaw, but Sirus didn’t need to hear him talk.
Aerostats, the Spoiled corrected, his thoughts possessed of a surprising coherence. A brief rummage through the man’s memories revealed him to be a former locomotive-driver with a level of technical understanding Sirus would be sorry to lose. They are manufactured at a place called the Mount Works, the Spoiled went on. Along with many other weapons.
Sirus felt a flare of excitement from Catheline, one he couldn’t help but share. He summoned a mental map of the Varestian Peninsular and pushed it into the Spoiled’s mind along with a question. Where is it?
“You shouldn’t be risking yourself like this,” Catheline had said as he climbed onto Katarias’s back. She reached out to him as he settled between the spines, one hand clutching her shawl about her shoulders whilst she grasped his forearm. He supposed that to an ignorant observer they might have made a romantic tableau, the hero being sent off to war by his beautiful, golden-haired paramour. But he wasn’t a hero, he was a monster and Catheline, in any way that mattered, was far from beautiful.
“The mission is crucial,” he replied. “The outcome must be certain. I need to lead in person.”
She didn’t object, the White’s approval overriding any objections she might harbour though Sirus was struck by the anguish evident in her face. “If you don’t come back . . .” she began, then faltered before continuing. “It will be . . . difficult.”
“Veilmist will make an adequate replacement,” he said.
She looked up, meeting his gaze, red-black eyes wide and expression devoid of the arch cynicism he had come to expect. “That’s not what I meant.”
Katarias banked steeply to avoid a thick patch of cloud, bringing Sirus back to the present with a jolt. Looking down, he could see the two moons reflected on a calm sea, meaning they had crossed the coast-line north of Blaska Sound. He had opted to cover much of the distance in an overland flight, avoiding the many eyes of the Varestian fleet whilst also affording the Reds the opportunity to rest along the way. Even a drake couldn’t stay aloft indefinitely. After flying from midnight to noon, Sirus had the formation set down where the mountains rose some fifty miles north-west of their objective. There were thirty Reds in all, each carrying a veteran Spoiled. Hardly a mighty force but it was important their approach not be noticed. Sirus also calculated that the intelligence provided by the aerostat pilot before his inevitable death would more than compensate for a lack of numbers.
He waited for nightfall before setting off again, skirting the northern flank of the mountains and making for the coast whereupon the Reds made a sharp turn into the Sound. They flew low over the placid waters, wary of being silhouetted against the two moons. The Mount Works soon came into view, Sirus quickly confirming that the description of the defences matched the mental image supplied by the pilot. Lizanne Lethridge clearly hadn’t taken the settlement’s security for granted. There were a dozen gun emplacements surrounding the town and the manufactory, with another six within, all manned day and night by the town militia. However, it was the manufactory that captured most of his interest, a large building with light streaming from its windows and open main doors, illuminating the copious steam and smoke rising from its vents.
That must burn tonight, he told Forest Spear and the other Spoiled. Everything else is secondary.
The Spoiled slipped from the backs of the Reds as they neared the wharf, Sirus tumbling from Katarias’s back into the chill embrace of the Sound. It was a three-hundred-yard swim to the docks, an easy feat for a Spoiled. The hour corresponded with the turn of the two-moon tide so the current was friendly, allowing a swift approach. He kept beneath the surface for most of the journey, pausing occasionally to rise and poke his nose out of the water and draw in some air before slipping below, leaving barely a ripple on the surface. A number of ships were moored at the wharf, freighters waiting to take the munitions manufactured here to the army in the north. Sirus and the other Spoiled dived down and swam beneath the hulls, rising on the other side to conceal themselves in the matrix of girders beneath the wharf. With the tide high it was a short climb, Sirus dividing the Spoiled into two groups and leading one to the eastern side of the docks whilst the other went west.
Sirus scaled the girders to the edge of the platform, slowly hauling himself up to peer at what lay above and finding himself instantly greeted by a pair of guards. They were frozen in the act of sharing a match, cigarillos dangling from their mouths as they gaped at him. Sirus swung his body and vaulted over the edge, knife coming free of the sheath on his belt as he rolled towards the guards. One managed a half-shout before the blade slashed across his throat whilst the other continued to gape in shock even as Sirus stabbed him under the chin, driving the knife up into his brain.
He moved on without pause, the Spoiled following close behind. There were many crates stacked up around the docks, providing valuable cover as they slipped from one shadow to another. Upon clearing the docks pairs of Spoiled peeled off, moving swiftly to the gun-positions they had been ordered to silence. Sirus and Forest Spear, in company with four others, made for the manufactory.
As expected, there were no people in the streets, the converted pilot having informed them of the strict curfew observed at the Mount. Those not working a shift were to be afforded an uninterrupted sleep, though Sirus wondered how that was possible with the noise produced by the manufactory. A continual clatter of metal on metal rose in volume as they approached, still keeping to the shadows and avoiding the notice of the cordon of guards surrounding the works.
They paused as Sirus checked the progress of the Spoiled he had sent against the gun emplacements. Four positions had already been silenced, the gunners cut down with knife and war-club before they could raise the alarm. Another seven were wiped out in the space of a few minutes but then one of the gunners, a young woman with impressive reflexes, managed to draw her revolver in time to shoot down the two attacking Spoiled. Within seconds the piercing shriek of a siren cut through the noise of the manufactory and lights began to flare in the windows of the houses.
Sirus sent a mental command to Katarias, calling the Reds down from their circling vigil several hundred feet above. He had known the chances of achieving complete surprise were slim, but the damage already done to the Mount’s defences ensured at least half the Reds would make it through the barrage.
Tracer bullets were already arcing into the air when he led the Spoiled from cover, drawing his revolver and making straight for the cordon in front of the manufactory’s huge open doors. The Spoiled spread out on either side as he ran, firing their revolvers on the run and cutting down ten guards. Their comrades responded swiftly with rifle and carbines, Sirus and the other Spoiled throwing themselves flat as the bullets snapped the air around them. He took the time to reload his revolver, glancing up at the familiar hiss and roar of drake fire.
Katarias swooped down out of the night sky to blast the remaining cordon of guards with his flames. He landed directly in front of the manufactory doors, two more drakes coming to earth on either side. As one they turned and charged into the manufactory, the noise of labour soon becoming drowned by the cacophony of many people screaming in terror.
Sirus got to his feet and led the Spoiled on, leaping to the side to avoid the falling corpse of a Red that landed in his path, its hide pierced all over by cannon fire. Inside the manufactory everything was chaos, charred or mutilated corpses littered the rows of work-benches and burning people ran in all directions. Katarias and his two fellow drakes were halfway along the cavernous space, belching repeated gouts of flame at the mass of people fleeing to the rear of the building. Those running for the side exits were cut down by tail strikes or bullets from the Spoiled as Sirus led them forward in a skirmish-line.
He levelled his revolver at a fleeing man, putting a bullet through his head from thirty paces, then instinctively jerked away as the chest of the Spoiled to his right exploded. Sirus took cover beneath a work-bench, seeing another Spoiled fall, the impact of the shot that killed him powerful enough to remove his head from his shoulders. The other Spoiled raised their pistols to a higher angle and returned fire, Sirus slipping from cover to track their aim to a walkway above. A man was crouched behind some steel plating, sparks flying as the Spoiled’s bullets struck home. Sirus could make out the shiny crown of the man’s bald head and the barrel of the carbine he held, jerking as he reloaded. Raising his revolver, Sirus centred the sights on the man’s head, then stopped as a small round object was tossed over the steel plating, trailing smoke as it arced down to land a few feet away.
Sirus leapt with all the strength his remade limbs allowed; even so, the grenade came close to killing him. Shrapnel buzzed the air as the blast sent him careening into a girder, Sirus feeling the snap of breaking ribs as his chest connected with the iron pillar. He lay stunned at the foot of the girder, pain flaring in his chest with every breath. The snick of a carbine lever drew his gaze upwards, finding the man with the carbine staring down at him from the walkway. He was a stocky fellow in soot-covered overalls, and Sirus felt a faint pulse of amusement as he scanned the man’s broad features, recognising him as one of the duo that had flown away from Feros with Tekela.
“Hello,” he said, though the words were probably meaningless, garbled by the blood leaking from his mouth. “A friend of Tekela’s, are you not?”
Whether the man heard or even understood him, Sirus couldn’t know. In either case being greeted by a Spoiled didn’t seem to stir any merciful impulse. The man swiftly brought the carbine to his shoulder, eyes dark and purposeful behind the sights as he trained them on Sirus.
Forest Spear’s knife came spinning out of the grenade smoke, sinking into the bald man’s neck up to the hilt. The carbine swung wide as his finger gave a final convulsive twitch on the trigger, the bullet missing Sirus by a few inches, though the explosion of sparks as it impacted the girder sent flakes of molten steel into his face.
He felt Forest Spear pulling him upright and wiped the blood from his eyes, glancing around to see the other Spoiled lying dead. The interior of the manufactory was now so filled with smoke and heat it was hard even for his unnatural gaze to discern the scale of the destruction. However, a bright blaze was burning at the rear of the building, the roar of the flames punctuated by exploding munitions. Sirus was able to make out the slumped forms of two drakes, meaning they had encountered some fierce resistance during their rampage. A sudden drop in temperature made the view clearer, Sirus catching sight of a Red tearing a large rent in the manufactory’s roof. He was able to recognise Katarias as the huge drake clawed his way out.
Another round of explosions sounded deep in the manufactory, shaking the ground and convincing Sirus they had done all the damage they could. He and Forest Spear rushed outside, finding the sky above the town criss-crossed by arcing lines of tracer from the surviving gun emplacements. Their fire was augmented by numerous repeating guns on the ships moored at the wharf. Sirus saw a Red fold up in mid air, caught by two converging bursts of cannon fire that sent it plummeting into the streets. Another Red swooped down, spewing flame at a squad of militia, then fell dead as their carbines sent a fusillade of exploding bullets into its chest.
A mental survey revealed to Sirus that he and Forest Spear were the only Spoiled to survive the attack, a distinction that wouldn’t last long judging by the large number of militia streaming towards them from the town.
There was a brief rumbling cry from above followed by a gust of wind as Katarias came to earth near by. Sirus and Forest Spear scrambled onto his back, ducking as bullets zipped around them and the beast sprinted forward before launching himself skyward. Katarias twisted and turned as cannon shells and bullets chased them across the sky, swooping low and banking to soar to the north end of the town where the rising smoke and flame from the manufactory masked their escape.
The drake let out a loud roar as they flew away, wings sweeping as he bore them towards the mountains. Whether it was an expression of triumph or grief for his lost kin, Sirus couldn’t tell.