Tekela nodded, small worry lines creasing her forehead. “Or worse,” she said.
“Yes. Or worse.” She gestured at the small clock Jermayah had set amongst the cluster of dials in front of the pilot’s station. “How much longer?”
Tekela straightened and turned, taking a firmer grip on the control lever. “In this wind, at least another ten hours.”
“Which means we’ll be arriving in darkness.”
“I can circle through the night, begin the approach at dawn.”
“No. You’ll be too fatigued.” Lizanne rose into a crouch and shuffled forward to the viewing tube that sat alongside the central strut. “Time to fire up the blood-burner, I think.”
“The professor said it has only one charge. And once started the only way to stop it is to flush the plasma from the combustion chamber. It might be better to save it for emergencies.”
“We can recharge it when we land, assuming we’re allowed to take off again. If not then it won’t matter.” She flipped open the cover on the viewing tube and put her eye to the socket. “Besides, I should like to see just how fast this thing can go. Ready?”
“One second. Need to level the ailerons; otherwise, the slip-stream will tear them off.” Lizanne heard a snick as Tekela locked one of the levers into place. “Ready.”
Lizanne took her wallet from the pocket of her jacket and extracted a vial of Red, taking a small sip before returning her eye to the viewing tube. Her father had placed a little luminescent disc inside the plasma valve so it was easy to make out the small pool of viscous liquid it held. A brief flare of Red and the product immediately burst into an eye-wateringly bright fire-ball. She was about to opine that adding tinted glass to the eyepiece might be a good idea when the aerostat surged forward with enough force to send her sprawling. She heard Tekela let out a startled but delighted giggle and blinked the moisture from her eyes to see that she now had both hands on the control lever. Over her shoulder Lizanne could see the needle on the speedometer swiftly ascending to its maximum reading, where it stayed.
“Must be over a hundred miles an hour at least,” Tekela said with an appreciative laugh. “Looks as if the professor underestimated his invention.”
“Co-invention,” Lizanne corrected, glancing through a port-hole to see the wispy cloud beyond passing by at a greatly accelerated rate. “When we get back to the ship, remind me to draft a proper patent and a contract to cover distribution of future profits.”
* * *
• • •
They cleared the Sabiras Archipelago in what seemed like minutes, bringing them into the Red Tides proper. They were low enough to make out the waves passing below, the ocean surface blurring thanks to their speed. Several more ships came into view, most much smaller than the freighter, though none felt the need to fire on them. Lizanne suspected this was due more to their increased speed than any lack of hostility. In all it took just under four hours before Tekela reported land in sight. The thermoplasmic engine had exhausted its supply by then, forcing Tekela to combat the winds once more, though she proved adept at keeping the approaching land-mass firmly in the centre of the forward window.
Lizanne moved forward, leaning over Tekela’s shoulder to view the landscape, her eyes tracking over the coast in search of landmarks. “Iskamir,” she said, spying a broad inlet a few degrees to the north. She gave Tekela’s shoulder a grateful squeeze. “We’re in the right place. You better take us up, high as you can, please. No telling what reception we’ll get from the locals.”
The island of Iskamir was often referred to in atlases and almanacs as the “jewel” or “beating heart” of Varestia, the central hub where pirates came to sell their booty and traders to buy it. As they flew over the eastern coast Lizanne was struck by how many ports it featured, all surrounded by towns of varying proportions. It occurred to her that this might well be the most densely populated land-mass on the globe, meaning the place had to be reliant on imported cargo to feed its population, as the interior was mostly mountains or rough hill-country. Not a place to hold out for very long in a siege, she concluded as the aerostat drew away from the coast and into the mountains. The peaks were so tall Tekela had to slow the craft and steer a way through them, hauling on the controls with ever more energy thanks to the fractious air currents and drifting patches of mist.
“Best if we fly around this place on the way back,” she said, her labour having left a sheen of sweat on her face despite the chill.
Once through the mountains they flew across a thin stretch of cultivated fields before once again finding themselves over the sea as they reached the strait that separated Iskamir from the unique construction that formed the Seven Walls. It came into view quickly, at first appearing to be a dark strangely regular notch on the horizon, but soon grew to a size that put her in mind of the mountains they had just traversed. She knew the great fortress’s origin dated back at least a thousand years and was a truly ingenious design; a small central island complete with a port around which a series of seven walls had been constructed between the smaller outlying islets. The result was a self-contained port permanently shielded from the tide on all sides. However, during the days when the old Varestian League had fought the last of its wars against the encroaching Corvantine Empire it had been greatly enlarged. The walls now stood over a hundred feet high featuring a miniature fort at each intersection. Once again making use of the riflescope, Lizanne could see each fort bristling with guns and busy with ant-sized figures running to their stations. It appeared their approach had not gone unnoticed.
Within the walls lay the port itself, so crammed with buildings, wharfs and jetties Lizanne could see scant sign of vegetation save for the occasional tree. I hope they’ve been stockpiling food, she mused. The only open space was a central square surrounded by a series of grand buildings, the largest of which she assumed would house the Varestians’ quasi-government.
“We’ll land there,” Lizanne said, pointing to the square.
“The forts?” Tekela asked in a thin voice. They were close enough now to see the gun-crews loading their pieces.
“Let’s hope they have enough honour to observe traditional customs.” Lizanne went to the canvas bag she had obtained from Captain Trumane. The item it contained was large and unwieldy, taking several tiresome minutes to extract. When it was done she dragged it to the hatch in the gondola’s floor.
“Hover in place for a moment,” she told Tekela. “We need to make sure they see it.”
She opened the hatch as Tekela duly brought the craft to a slow sideways drift, then fastened the ties attached to the corners of the item to the main strut before pushing it out. The flag unfurled to its full length thanks to the stiff winds found at these heights, revealing a design Lizanne hoped would still be recognised in these uncertain times; a white circle on a red background. Even the Varestians were reputed to respect the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation.
They drifted for several minutes as the flag fluttered and flapped below the aerostat. Lizanne kept careful watch on the closest fort, detecting a certain amount of confusion amongst the gun-crews, and no small amount of accompanying argument. She even saw a couple of men come to blows, but no cannon were fired.
“Take us in,” she told Tekela. “A slow and gentle approach would be best.”
She was obliged to cut the flag free once they were over the wall as it was coming perilously close to fouling the engine’s propellers. They would just have to hope the Varestians didn’t take this as a signal of hostile intent. People thronged the wharfs and streets as they flew over the port towards the square, most staring in wonder or suspicion, a few running in panic. There were numerous ships at anchor and many began to make steam at the sight of the aerostat. None of this gave Lizanne much confidence in a safe landing, but they couldn’t turn back now.
Tekela guided the aerostat to a hover when they came t
o the square, then slowly reduced the heat of the caloric burner to ensure a gentle congress with the ground. One of Jermayah’s design additions to the aerostat was retractable landing gear that sprouted from the gondola’s underside and rather resembled a metallic eagle’s claw. Tekela deployed it when they were a few feet from the square’s paved surface and the aerostat settled down with only a small bump.
“Excellently done,” Lizanne complimented her, peering through the window at a group of men rapidly descending the steps of the large building to their front. There were about twenty of them, and each one bore a rifle or carbine. “You had better go out and greet our hosts.”
Tekela gaped at her. “Me?”
Lizanne went to the rear of the gondola and began assembling the required equipment. “I’ll be along directly,” she said, strapping on her Spider.
“What do I say to them?”
“‘Hello’ is traditional.”
“I don’t speak Varestian.”
“Don’t worry. They’re almost always multilingual.”
Tekela hesitated for a long, silent moment then undid the forward hatch and climbed out of the gondola. Lizanne heard the pounding of boots as the men drew near and fanned out, one of them demanding something in harsh, breathless Varestian.
“Ah,” Tekela said. “Hello.”
There was a short pause, during which Lizanne used the Spider to inject a small burst of Green before moving to the rear hatch.
“Who the fuck are you?” the same voice demanded in heavily accented Mandinorian. “And what the fuck is this?”
“My name is Burgravine Tekela Artonin,” came the response in admirably steady tones. “And I don’t see any need for profanity, sir.”
“Trust me, girl,” the voice went on, growing louder as its owner drew closer, “a foul tongue is the least of—”
His words were drowned out as Lizanne stepped out from under the gondola, raised the mini-Growler and let loose with a prolonged burst of fire. She found Tekela was right about the weapon’s tendency to pull up when fired, it was also somewhat unwieldy thanks to the ammunition load and the miniature caloric engine required to spin the barrels. Consequently, even with the benefit of Green Lizanne’s aim was not as precise as she would have liked. The mini-Growler stitched a vertical line of bullet-holes up the edifice of the largest building in the square before transforming one of the statues on its roof into a stump of shattered marble.
Lizanne removed her finger from the firing mechanism, lowering her gaze to find that the men who had come to greet them were all now lying face-down on the paving-stones. She strode forward, focusing her gaze on the upturned face of the man who had addressed Tekela. In normal circumstances he would probably have been an imposing fellow, with his weathered face and sabre-scarred cheeks. Now he was just another scared man facing death. It was an expression she had grown used to recently.
“I shall explain your choices in very simple terms,” she said. “You can get up, apologise to my friend for your language and take us to see the Varestian Ruling Council. Or”—she aimed the mini-Growler’s smoking barrels directly at his head—“I’ll kill you and every man here, then go and find them myself.”
CHAPTER 12
Clay
“Battle stations! Riflemen assemble on deck!”
Hilemore’s orders rang out from the bridge as Clay turned and slid down the ladder, making for his position on the prow. The Superior’s forward pivot-gun fired before he could get there, the shot aimed low so that it impacted in the centre of the approaching mass of Greens in a spout of white and red. Clay went to the port rail instead, pistol drawn as he stared down at the water below. Jack!
He could feel the Blue’s distress, an instinctive fear of greater numbers overcoming his loyalty. A brief sharing of minds revealed him to be circling frantically beneath the Superior’s stern, attempting to conceal himself in the silt his coils raised from the sea-bed. Old Jack was never as mighty as Last Look, Clay reminded himself. Nor so crazy.
He heard another shouted command from the bridge and saw Steelfine marshalling his riflemen. The Islander sent a squad of six to the port rail and the remaining seven to starboard. Several more riflemen appeared on the upper works, accompanied by Sigoral and Loriabeth. A glance above revealed Preacher’s tall form scaling the ladder to the crow’s nest, his rifle slung across his back. Clay couldn’t see his uncle or Skaggerhill but knew they would be taking up station somewhere in the aft section.
The forward gun fired again, quickly followed by both the port and starboard cannon, meaning the Greens were all around them now. Clay returned his gaze to the sea, at first seeing nothing but the roiling wake rebounding from the hull, then reeling back as a Green launched itself out of the water, mouth gaping. The heat of the drake’s fire was fierce enough to stun him, sending him sprawling onto the deck, smoke rising from his singed clothing. He scrabbled to extinguish the flames clinging to his sleeves then, realising he had dropped his revolver, reached for the wallet of product in his jacket. He had managed to get it open when a loud hiss dragged his gaze to the rail in time to see the Green clambering onto the deck.
Like most aquatic Greens it was considerably larger and longer of body than its land-based cousins, the head and snout narrow and spear-like, and possessed of a barbed, whip-like tail. Seeing the beast coil its tail for a strike, Clay rolled on the deck an instant before the thorny tip slammed into the boards with splintering force. Clay’s mind filled with feverish curses as he fumbled for his vials, desperately trying to get one to his lips. The Green, however, saw no reason to allow him the luxury of time and lunged, jaws snapping, then fell dead as a bullet tore through its skull.
Clay gaped at the bleeding twitching body of the Green then felt hands grip him beneath the shoulders, trying to drag him upright. “Are you hurt?” Kriz asked once he was on his feet. She had obtained a revolver from somewhere and stood with her back to him, aiming at the multiple Greens now boiling over the Superior’s rails. Rifle fire crackled continually, punctuated by more rapid pistol and carbine-shots and the hissing roar of drake flames. A scream snapped Clay’s gaze to the forward gun-crew. They had abandoned the pivot-gun and were attempting to fend off a trio of Greens with sea-axes and boat-hooks. One gunner was already down, yelping as he beat at the flames consuming his legs.
Clay took three vials from his wallet, Green, Red and Black, put all three to his lips and drank half the contents. “Take all of it,” he said, handing the vials to Kriz before crouching to retrieve his pistol and starting forward. “I’ll do the killing. Keep them off me.”
He froze one Green in place as it darted towards the burning crewman, shooting it in the head, then stunned the other two with a mixed blast of Red and Black. They skittered back, hissing in distress and rage. He used his Green-enhanced reflexes to shoot one through the eye, but the other was too quick, swiftly dodging to the side then lashing out with its tail to spear one of the gunners through the chest. Kriz shouted an enraged expletive in her own language, casting out an inexpert but effective wave of Black that pinned the Green to the side-rail long enough for Clay to put a bullet through its head.
The burnt man lay writhing in agony as the two remaining gunners used a jacket to quench the last of the flames, but Clay could tell the fellow wouldn’t last long. A quick look around confirmed the fore-deck and the prow free of Greens, but the mid-deck and the upper works were thick with the beasts. Dozens had been killed, and dozens more continued to fall to the crew’s desperate fusillade, but ever more were boiling out of the sea to clamber up the hull.
“You got cannister?” Clay asked one of the gunners, who could only stare at him in shock until Clay grabbed his jacket and shook him. “Cannister! You got any?”
“Just three shells,” the man said, moving to the recessed compartment in the deck where the ammunition was stored. “The Corvies used most of it up at the Strait.”
>
“Get it loaded,” Clay said. “We’ll keep them back.”
The gunners got to work whilst Clay and Kriz positioned themselves to the rear of the gun, dispatching any Green that detached itself from the main pack to charge them. Kriz seemed to be learning with every use of product, her blasts of Red and Black becoming more accurate. Clay saw her snap the forelegs of one Green then roast its eyes as it stumbled to a halt a few yards away.
“Neat trick,” he said, finishing the Green with a bullet to the skull. His last bullet. “You ready yet?” he demanded, turning back to the gun.
“Ready,” one of the gunners said, snapping the breech closed before he and his comrade began swivelling the gun about. “Better get behind us if you don’t want to be shredded.”
Clay and Kriz moved swiftly to comply as the gunners brought the pivot-gun to bear on the upper works. “Where do we aim?” one asked.
“Starboard side,” Clay said, pointing. “That’s where they’re thickest.”
“Guard your ears,” the other gunner said, reaching for the firing lanyard. Clay clamped his hands over the side of his head, nodding for Kriz to do the same. Even so, the gun’s blast was enough to leave a ringing in his ears and cause an involuntary closing of the eyes. When he looked again the mass of drakes assailing the starboard flank of the upper works had been transformed into a green-and-red morass. Eviscerated and part-dismembered Greens lay about the ladders and walkways, some still twitching. Amongst it all Clay could see the dark uniform of a Protectorate sailor.
“Port side,” he said, forcing his gaze away. “Hurry up.”
They had to fend off another charge before the gun was ready to fire again, Clay feeling his reserves of product diminish with every slaughtered drake. Fortunately, Preacher had evidently seen their plight and chose to lend a hand. Three Greens went down in quick succession, felled by longrifle shots from the crow’s nest. Despite this, the Greens continued to come for them and by the time the gunners called out a warning their product was almost all spent. There was no time to retreat so he and Kriz threw themselves flat, hands covering their ears as the gun blasted out its hail of iron balls.