They know the only quick route now lies in the Grand Cut, she thought. But will they take the bait? It was possible the White could steer its army towards the coast road to the west, buying the Defence League valuable time in the process, but she had a sense it would try for the pass despite the obvious risks. What does it care about risks? It can always make more Spoiled, at least for now.
She held on to the central support strut as Tekela put the Typhoon into a steep descent. The other Blood-blessed, ten in all including Morva, were crowded together in various states of white-faced nausea. For most it was their first trip in an aerostat, and three of the Blood-blessed from the Mount Works had never seen any kind of combat before. They all carried Smoker carbines and each had a Spider on their wrist, fully loaded with product. In addition they carried full flasks of Red, Green and Black with an emergency vial of Blue. It occurred to Lizanne that with all the product on their person those drafted into this mission might well be, albeit briefly, the richest group of individuals on the planet.
“Get ready,” Lizanne told them as the Typhoon levelled out. She peered through the rear window at the Tempest, the Typhoon’s recently constructed sister ship into which another thirteen Blood-blessed had been crammed. The Tempest bristled with armaments, two Thumpers on either side of the gondola with a Growler at the rear and another two in a fixed position at the front which could be triggered by the pilot. The look-out in the upper gondola also had a mini-Growler to ward off attacks from above. The Typhoon was armed only with Growlers thanks to the heavy object hanging beneath her gondola, which limited the weight she could bear and still manoeuvre.
“Check your watch,” Lizanne told Morva, who obligingly extended her wrist to display her timepiece. Lizanne placed her own watch alongside to ensure they were synchronised. “Start the trance . . .”
“In exactly two hours,” Morva finished. “Remain in the trance until you contact me or the product runs out. I know.”
Lizanne nodded in satisfaction and started towards the front of the gondola, pausing when Morva said, “It was my uncle, wasn’t it? He made you leave me behind.” There was no heat to her words, just careful observation.
“My trance connection with you is stronger than with the others,” Lizanne replied.
“Mrs. Griffan could have taken on the role.”
“Mrs. Griffan is insane. She’s better off remaining on the Viable.” She met Morva’s gaze. “You have this role because I trust no one else to do it.”
She returned to Tekela’s side, watching the approaching mountains. The morning winds were stiff but she had been advised by Varestians familiar with the region they would grow fierce as the day wore on. The Grand Cut came into view as they flew over the southern foot-hills. Lizanne found its appearance somewhat at odds with its name, a narrow, cliff-sided track tracing the contours between the flanks of two mountains. She took some solace from the photostats that showed the pass to be considerably wider to the north and, therefore, hopefully a more tempting option for whoever had command of the White’s forces today.
Tekela, having made this trip several times over the preceding days, steered the Typhoon towards a broad ledge jutting from a point a hundred feet or so up the eastern mountain. Reconnaissance had revealed this as the optimum landing site as there was a similarly proportioned ledge on the opposite side of the pass. Tekela brought the aerostat closer, deft hands correcting their course as the fractious mountain air-currents buffeted the craft. After a few minutes of careful handling the Typhoon hovered over the ledge at a height of twenty feet.
“Remember,” she told Tekela, “not until Morva gives the order. No matter what else might happen.”
Tekela looked up at her, the tension evident in her set features. “And if there is no order?” she asked.
“The mission will be over. Fly back to the Mount.” She paused before moving to the hatch in the floor. “And be sure to meet with Madame Hakugen as soon as you return.”
CHAPTER 37
Clay
It seemed as if half of Stockcombe was already alight by the time Lutharon swept over the outer wall. Fires raged on both sides of the falls and he could see people running through the streets on the eastern side. At first it appeared to be the chaotic end of another city fallen to the White’s malice, but then he saw smoke-plumes rising from the cannon on the ships in the harbour. To Clay’s bemusement they were firing into the eastern districts of the city, the shells falling amidst the houses closest to the rim of the crater. As Lutharon flew closer, however, he saw Reds leaping from one roof-top to another, belching flame at the people running in the streets below. He saw one Red blasted in half by a direct hit from a cannon shell, but there were dozens, perhaps hundreds more still scrambling over the lip of the crater. Fortunately, it appeared none had noticed Lutharon’s arrival.
Clay had already filled his fist with vials of Red, Green and Black. He drank them all now then glanced over his shoulder to ensure Kriz was doing the same. He leaned forward, placing a hand on Lutharon’s neck with the intent of guiding his attack but the Black needed no instruction tonight. Folding his wings, Lutharon angled his body in a near-vertical dive, Clay finding himself thankful for the Green he had imbibed as the slip-stream might otherwise have torn his grip from the neck spines. Lutharon flared his wings and tilted back as they neared the roof-tops, claws stabbing down to pierce the hide of an unsuspecting Red. It struggled frantically, tail lashing at Lutharon’s hide, close enough for Clay to reel away from a whip-crack an inch from his ear. Lutharon clamped his jaws on the Red’s neck and snapped it with a swift wrenching jerk.
Rearing back from the kill, Lutharon raised his head to the sky and let out a loud, summoning roar. The great host of Blacks circling above responded without hesitation, streaking out of the gloom in a dark torrent. To Clay’s eyes it seemed as if the night sky were reaching down to pour a shadow over the city. Red after Red was crushed under the weight of the assault, some tried vainly to take to the skies only to be caught and dragged back into the tearing, rending maelstrom.
The rain of Black drakes swept over the upper districts, swallowing Reds as it did so, then spilling over the lip of the crater to assail those still charging across the plain beyond. The mind controlling the drake assault evidently realised the danger at that point for the sky beyond the edge of the crater suddenly became filled with Reds as they abandoned their ground assault. The Blacks began to take off in response, leaving behind a host of slaughtered drakes.
Clay communicated to Lutharon the need to wait as he and Kriz slipped from his back and hurried to a safe distance. “They’re all yours, big fella,” Clay told him as Lutharon crouched then launched himself upwards, his wings birthing a gale as he climbed into the darkness.
“Come on,” Clay told Kriz. “We gotta find the captain.”
They leapt from one building to another, sailing over streets thronged with panicked people, Clay constantly searching for someone in authority. He soon happened upon a crew of fire-fighters attempting to contain a blaze raging in a two-storey tenement. “Hilemore?” he said, leaping down to shout into the ear of the youth who seemed to be in charge.