Arradsia, he concluded, recognising some of the trees as unique to the continent.
Yes, Catheline responded, her thoughts tinged with impatience. This is from this morning. Watch . . . There at the edge of the trees.
Sirus concentrated on the required portion of the view, soon picking out the sight of a pair of human figures emerging from the jungle into a region of sparse bush-country. The height of the drake that had seen this was too great to make out any details.
Spoiled? he asked, so far failing to perceive the significance of this memory.
No. Catheline’s mind had darkened considerably, rich in the same rage as when she shared visions of the Lethridge woman. The image magnified as the drake focused on the two figures, Sirus making out the features of a man and a woman, both young and of South Mandinorian heritage. They wore the garb typical of the corporate Contractors who, until recently, had roamed the Interior in search of drakes.
So a few Contractors are still alive, he thought. Hardly surprising. It’s a big land-mass.
These aren’t just Contractors. Her rage blossomed to new heights, possessed of the kind of intensity he knew could only be compelled by the White. They are as dangerous as that Lethridge bitch, perhaps even more so.
The memory shifted again as the Red that had captured it began a descent, gaze fixed on the pair below. They grew in size as it streaked down, Sirus feeling the beast’s killing urge and the heat of the gases rising from belly to throat. It never got a chance to ignite its flames. The vision turned completely red and Sirus felt something hard and sharp clamp onto the Red’s neck. After that the memory fragmented into a discordant series of images and brief flashes of agony that told of a furious struggle, and a losing one at that. Catheline froze it just as the Red coiled its neck for a final snap at its assailant, Sirus finding himself confronted by the sight of a very large Black drake, the lower jaw partially obscured by the thick stream of fire it had called forth.
“They were saved by a Black,” he said as Catheline withdrew her mind.
She paced back and forth on a patch of muddy ground a short distance from the village. Lately she had taken to wearing a Corvantine cavalry officer’s uniform, complete with short jacket, sword, riding britches and knee-high boots. Of course it had been tailored to fit her pleasing proportions making for what would normally be a striking appearance. But today her boots and britches were stained with mud and the continuing drizzle had disordered her hair. The frantic expression she struggled to keep from her face, and the way she kept her arms tightly crossed, made this the least attractive impression she had yet made on him. He found he didn’t enjoy seeing her like this. For all her red-black eyes and fearsome abilities, now she appeared merely human, and he preferred her a monster. A monster will be easier to kill when the time comes.
He concealed the thought with a suitable degree of fear but Catheline barely seemed to notice.
“You know what this means,” she said, inhuman eyes flashing at him from behind a damp veil of displaced hair.
“Actually, I don’t,” he replied honestly.
“The Blacks!” She bared elongated teeth in a snarl. “The Blacks will be coming against us.” Her voice subsided into a murmur, gaze becoming distant. “Just like before. He thought with their allies destroyed they would keep themselves removed, to be dealt with later. But somehow . . .” Her lips twitched, brows furrowed in fury. “Somehow these two have formed an alliance with them. They will be coming.”
“There’s a great deal of ocean between Arradsia and Varestia,” Sirus pointed out.
“And many ships here.” She pushed another memory into his head, a top-down view of a crater situated on a stretch of coast-line and resembling a huge bite mark, within which lay a harbour city Sirus had only ever seen in books.
“Stockcombe,” he said, noting the fleet in the harbour. His attention was immediately drawn to the only warship present, an unusual design in that it lacked paddles. The Red capturing the image evidently sensed a similar significance in the warship for its gaze focused on the upper decks. Sirus saw a tall man standing there, spy-glass raised as he returned the drake’s scrutiny.
“Many ships can carry many Blacks,” Catheline said. Sirus could sense a desperate need for guidance in her, powerful enough to birth a compulsion to cooperate that no amount of fear or inner resolve could dispel.
“There are still drakes left in Arradsia,” he said. “Are there not?”
“Thousands,” she replied. “Those that couldn’t be gathered for the crusade. But they’re scattered.”
“Gather them now,” he advised. “Send all you can to Stockcombe. Without a fleet the Blacks won’t be going anywhere.”
“But the Blacks might get there first. The harbour could be empty by the time an assault could be made.”
“As I said, there’s a great deal of ocean separating this continent from that one. And we have a means of commanding the ocean, do we not? A means not required for our current campaign.”
The Blues were dispatched that evening, each of them filled with the desire to make for southern Arradsia and sink any ship they found. Previously they had been engaged in blockading the Red Tides in order to prevent the Varestians acquiring supplies or reinforcements from elsewhere. Marshal Morradin had contested the move, arguing that limiting the enemy’s sea-borne communications would have a crucial effect on the land campaign. Sirus considered the marshal had been lucky that Catheline’s punishment for dissent amounted to only a five-minute bout of agony, her mood being so fraught and intolerant of argument.
She’s frightened, he knew. Or rather, she is the vessel of the White’s fear. The Blacks, those Contractors, Lizanne Lethridge. He fears them all.
The next two days brought an unexpected increase in numbers when they encountered a town where the inhabitants had taken the admirable if unwise decision to defend their homes rather than flee. They had made strenuous efforts to fortify the place with a line of trench works and an impressive array of cannon, the place being home to an Imperial armaments works.
“A grand battery of cannon and a host of new recruits,” Morradin said with grim relish as he reordered his columns for an assault. “What a generous gift they have made for us.”
Whilst the town had many with the skills to manufacture cannon, it transpired they had few skilled in using them. Morradin spent the day surrounding the place and sending small forays towards the defensive lines to entice the town’s gunners into revealing their positions, which many obligingly proceeded to do before nightfall. In the small hours of the morning Reds were used to drop parties of Spoiled on all the pin-pointed batteries. They were all swiftly seized and the captured cannon duly turned on the defenders. Informed by one party of raiders of a stretch of line which had suffered the most casualties, Morradin sent forward twenty thousand Spoiled in a massed attack. At the same time he assailed the rest of the line with small-scale attacks to prevent the defenders switching forces to contest the main assault.
It was over before dawn save for some street skirmishes in the town itself. By the afternoon Veilmist reported another twenty-five thousand additions to their ranks for the cost of less than two thousand casualties. For once Morradin was happy to share his thoughts. Neatest and most complete victory I ever won, he told Sirus as they toured the southern fringes of the town. The marshal’s mind seemed to shine with satisfaction at his own tactical acumen. Sirus found it distasteful to share in such self-regard but also recognised that Morradin was at his core a man who relished command in battle. Expecting him not to take pride in such a victory was like expecting a carpenter not to take pride in a perfectly crafted table.