“You let me assess the profit and loss for this company, Craw.” Wittler’s gaze narrowed further, his face showing none of the affable surety Ethelynne had become accustomed to. “Your brother’s here because you vouched for him. Best if he doesn’t give me further cause to regret deferring to your judgement.”
“He surely won’t, cap’n. My word on it.” The Elder Crawden took hold of his brother’s arm and led him to the stern, pausing to offer a respectful nod to Ethelynne. Wittler lingered a moment, his gaze now free of judgement and a certain warmth returning to his voice. “Careful with that, Miss Ethy.” He pointed to the unstoppered vial of Black in her hand. “We’ll need every drop before long.”
She watched him return to the tiller, calling to Clatterstock to make ready with the anchor. As the barge drew closer to the bank Ethelynne’s gaze was drawn again to the Red. It had stopped twitching now, its precious blood flowing thick enough to leave a dark stain in the river.
She drank half the remaining Green on reaching the Badlands, staggering a little as the effects took hold. Green was second only to Red as the Ironship Syndicate’s most valued export, a greatly prized medicine among the unblessed, curing infection better than any physic human hands could concoct. But for a Blood-blessed it was both panacea and ultimate tonic, banishing her exhaustion and filling strained muscles and nerves with renewed vigour. Ethelynne drew breath as she straightened from a sagging crouch, deep and long, the air sweet despite the lingering tang of the Red Sands. She cast a final glance at the rusty desert, experiencing a momentary satisfaction at its emptiness before her newly keen eyes picked out a plume of gunsmoke rising less than a mile away.
What are the odds he’d miss three times? There was no boom from the rifle, the distance was too great for that, just the whine of the bullet as she threw herself flat. It impacted on one of the narrow conical tors twenty feet ahead, chalky rock exploding into a pale white powder.
Ethelynne surged to her feet and sprinted forward, faster than any unblessed could ever run, the confused, jagged maze of the Badlands closing in around her. She kept running, pace only slightly slowed, hurdling boulders and leaping to bound from the surrounding rock, hurling herself onwards, following the marks left by Wittler’s charcoal. The lessons in Green had always been her greatest joy back at the Academy, outperforming all the other students as she raced around the cavernous gymnasium. There was no exhilaration now, just the fear and her thudding heart, and the lesson learned long ago. Red for the fire…
“Never been so cold my whole life,” Brother Two said, handsome face drawn in misery as he shuffled closer to the glowing circle Ethelynne had conjured in the sand. “Thought the wind over the southern seas was the coldest thing a man could feel, but it’s got nothing on this.”
“You’ve sailed the southern seas?” Ethelynne asked.
“Surely, Miss Ethy. Sailor on a Blue-hunter for more’n six years. Think Reds’re big, wait’ll you see a Blue…”
“Quiet,” Wittler said, voice soft as he rose to a crouch, eyes scanning the darkened dunes beyond their camp. Ethelynne noted he had drawn his six-shooter. A double-snick came from her right and she turned to see Bluesilk similarly crouched, a pistol in each hand. They had cleared the Badlands the day before, Wittler leading the way through the twisted labyrinth of chalk and granite. He set a punishing pace, pausing only to check his ancient map and scratch a black mark on one of the conical tors with a stick of charcoal.
“Don’t wanna lose your way in here,” Clatterstock said, sweating more profusely than the others though he showed no sign of slowing. “’Specially if the Spoiled come callin’.”
Ethelynne had been obliged to take her first taste of Green in order to keep up, just enough to make her legs move at a decent pace, though even then she found the going hard. It took almost a full day to traverse the Badlands, whereupon Wittler allowed a pause to survey the vast redness of the Sands.
“No sign, cap’n,” Bluesilk said, sweeping her eyeglass across the dunes. “Maybe they’ll leave us be this trip.” Ethelynne detected a note of forced optimism in gun-hand’s voice, something Wittler evidently saw no need to succour.
“They’ll be along,” he said. “Spoiled don’t forget a scent, nor turn from a feud when there’s still blood to be settled.”
Ethelynne watched him sniff the air now, seeing a grim acceptance settle on his face. She caught it then; an acrid stain on the easterly wind, redolent of corrupted flesh and stale blood. They drink it like wine, Clatterstock had told her back on the wagon. Untreated, undiluted. And somehow, they stay alive. They was here long before us, so I guess they had time to learn many a thing. Never learned to fear though. Must’ve left near a score lyin’ on the sands last trip, but still they kept on comin’.
Wittler briefly scanned the camp, checking to ensure they had all drawn weapons, then moved to Ethelynne’s side. “Well, here’s where you earn your share, Miss Ethy,” he told her in a whisper. “You remember what I told you?”
She nodded, finding she had to swallow before she could voice a response. “The arrows.”
“That’s right. You leave the killing to us. But keep those arrows off.” He paused to peer deeper into the dark and she fancied she saw a smile play on his lips. “Need us some light too, if you could oblige.”
She reached for her box and extracted the Red and the Black, surprised to find her hands weren’t shaking. She removed the stoppers from both vials and drank, Red and Black mingling on her tongue in bitter concord before she swallowed it down, feeling the power building inside, a fierce intoxicating rush. “How far out?” she asked Wittler, raising herself up.
“Thirty yards should do it.”
She sought out a patch of sand at the specified range and concentrated. Some Blood-blessed were given to theatrics when utilising their talents, their hands describing elaborate gestures as they intoned cryptic phrases in ancient languages. But that was all farce. The only tools a Blood-blessed needed were a disciplined mind and a decade or more of practice.
Ethelynne summoned the Red, feeling the power surge and the air between her and the patch of sand thicken with heat. She had taken a large gulp and the results were immediate, the sand taking on a fierce glow. She stood and turned in a slow circle, the glow spreading and following her gaze until the camp sat surrounded by a ring of melting iron, the dunes beyond lit by a soft yellow light. She heard Brother Two give a low whistle of admiration and forced the resultant smile from her lips. Emotion is the enemy of focus, Madame Bondersil had said more times than Ethelynne could count.
For a second nothing happened, the newly lit desert silent and empty, then came a faint hiss of something small and fast cutting the air. Ethelynne instantly switched to the Black, instinct finding the arrow before her eyes did. Black for the push. She caught it a foot short of her chest, watching it quiver as she held it in place. The head was fashioned from crudely shaped iron, the shaft a length of whittled bone and the fletching a ragged tail of dried grass. She blinked and broke it in two, letting it fall to the sand as a great hiss rose from the surrounding dunes.
“Best hunker down!” Wittler called to her but she ignored him, moving to the centre of the camp and raising her gaze skyward. The arrows fell in a black hail, perhaps a hundred arcing down out of the dark. She let them get within ten feet before unleashing the Black, sending out a single pulse of power, the arrows scattered and shredded like chaff.