“Then the sea will claim them,” Sirus said, concealing a wince as Katarias tore the last of the captives in two with a loud snap of his jaws. “The problem would appear to be solved.”
“We have to be sure,” she replied, shaking her head. “The box must be destroyed. Along with any who might unlock it. All other considerations are secondary.”
She turned to survey the ships within the harbour walls. Their appearance was decidedly unimpressive, each one blackened by fire or scarred by explosions. Of the Protectorate warships at anchor in Feros at the time of its seizure, only six could be said to be fully operational. The rest were undergoing extensive repairs and those beyond saving were being cannibalised for weapons and parts. Sirus estimated the full strength of the White’s fleet would be some twenty-five vessels once the work was complete. Added to that were another two dozen merchant vessels and Blue-hunters, which would be used as troop-transports, once their next destination had been made clear.
“I so wish to sail north, General,” Catheline said with a wistful air. “How I long to see Mandinor burn. But sadly we have more pressing matters. It’s time for you to add the title of ‘admiral’ to your collection.”
CHAPTER 4
Hilemore
“Who is she?”
“Told you who she is, Captain.” Clay gave Hilemore one of his signature, punch-inviting grins. Hilemore wasn’t sure whether to take some comfort from the fact that this young man had retained an effortless ability to annoy him despite his recent travails.
“Her name doesn’t tell me a great deal,” he replied, striving to control his burgeoning ire. “And, given our circumstances, I find my patience in short supply. So I will ask you again.” He put both fists on the desk and leaned closer to Clay, meeting his gaze with unmistakable intent. “Who is she?”
They were in the captain’s cabin aboard the Dreadfire, Clay nursing a cup of something hot Lieutenant Steelfine had managed to concoct in the galley. Lieutenant Sigoral was being tended to by the youngest Torcreek, though Loriabeth herself seemed close to collapse from exposure. Despite that she continued to nurse the Corvantine Marine and proved deaf to her father’s stern and repeated order to rest.
Then there was the woman. The woman named Kriz, who had not been a member of their party when they entered the Spire, and yet had now somehow been retrieved from the depths. She had nodded a greeting when Clay introduced her but seemed reluctant to utter more than a few words, her Mandinorian spoken in an uncannily perfect Carvenport accent. She sounded like someone raised in the Blinds, the notorious slum where Clay had spent his childhood years, but Hilemore knew instinctively that couldn’t be the case.
He felt an overriding sense of strangeness when he looked at her. Judging by her colouring he would have taken her for a South Mandinorian, but there was an angularity to her features that made him doubt it. Added to that was her manner, the way she stared at every fixture on the ship, eyes wary but also hungry for detail. Then there was the hour or more she had spent on deck staring at the sky and the surrounding ice-floes, her face occasionally breaking into a smile of unalloyed joy. The smile disappeared, however, the instant Hilemore attempted to talk to her, at which point she pulled her blanket tight about her shoulders and disappeared belowdecks. Hilemore couldn’t help the feeling that, although he had witnessed something unbelievable in Clay’s taming of Last Look Jack, this woman represented something far more incredible.
“Her full name is Krizelle,” Clay said, hesitating before gulping down some of Steelfine’s beverage and continuing in a tone of forced matter-of-factness. “Last survivor of the Philos Caste. She’s about ten thousand years old and was the first Blood-blessed born on this planet.” He sipped from the mug again, smacking his lips in appreciation. “This is really good, whatever it is.” The humour faded from his face as he glanced up at Hilemore’s silent, glowering visage.
“Alright,” Clay said with a sigh, setting the mug down on the desk. “But you better take a seat, Captain. This is a long story.”
“It’s true,” Loriabeth said. “Every word of it.” She jerked her head at Sigoral’s slumbering form on the bunk behind her. “You can ask him when he wakes.”
She had curtained off a section of the hold to use as a sick bay and hadn’t strayed from the lieutenant’s side since. Sigoral had been dosed with a small amount of their remaining stock of Green, Loriabeth also applying a diluted tincture of the product to his wound with a compress. Judging by the state of the damage, Hilemore entertained serious doubts the Marine would ever recover his sight in that eye. The pain had clearly left a deep mark for the man fidgeted in his sleep, hands jerking repeatedly as if he were clutching his carbine.
“An entire enclosed world down below.” Hilemore shook his head in a mixture of awe and incredulity. “It’s a hard tale to swallow, miss. And not one the Board will easily believe.”
“They can believe what they like.” She gave a pointed glance at where Kriz sat conversing with Clay at the galley table. “Besides, it ain’t like we got no proof.”
Hilemore nodded his thanks and moved away, pausing to regard the ancient woman who appeared only a few years his junior. She and Clay spoke in a language Hilemore didn’t know, an oddly inflected tongue of elongated vowels and soft consonants. The language of the past, he assumed. Learned by Torcreek in the trance along with many secrets he no doubt chose to keep back. Lengthy as the young Blood-blessed’s story had been, Hilemore’s experienced eye picked out several instances of slight hesitation accompanied by the fractional aversion of the eyes that told of a lie or deliberate omission. It won’t do, he decided, starting forward with a purposeful stride. I must know all of it to decide our course.
His purpose, however, was soon interrupted as the Dreadfire’s deck suddenly heaved beneath his feet, coming close to pitching him flat on his face. Hilemore grabbed a beam to steady himself, holding on as the deck lurched again. Cutlery and plates cascaded from the galley table as the ship seemed to revolve, swaying as if borne up by a heavy sea. But the weather’s calm, Hilemore thought, peering through the nearest port-hole.
“Blues again, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked, eyes wide and bright in his cadaverous face.
“Not with Jack so close by,” Clay said, making an unsteady progress to Hilemore’s side with Kriz following close behind. “Reckon we got some fresh trouble, Captain.”
The ship settled and Hilemore rushed for the steps to the upper deck, emerging to see Steelfine and a pair of crewmen leaning over the rail to stare at the water below. Moving to the Islander’s side, Hilemore followed his gaze to see that the sea was churning, large bubbles rising to the surface and bursting all around.
“Seer’s balls, what a stink!” one of the crew exclaimed, wafting the air from his nose at the miasma rising from the roiling sea. It was a potent stench to be sure, sulphurous and thick enough to clog the nostrils with an acrid sting.
“The fault in the sea-floor,” Hilemore realised as more bubbles rose, once again causing the Dreadfire to sway. “It must still be coughing out a great deal of lava. An annoyance but hardly an obstacle. Mr. Scrimshine!” he called to the former smuggler. “Take over the helm if you please, keep her heading north.”