She fought back with her own Black, sending a wave towards the ground to push her free, but only succeeding in spinning herself about. The hold on her neck tightened, starving her lungs of air. Lizanne’s vision began to dim, greying around the edges as her pulse throbbed in her temples. However, she was able to make out the sight of the woman, Catheline Dewsmine, doyen of the society pages, pelting towards her amongst the charging horde of Spoiled.
How on earth did she get here?
The question lost all significance when her ears became filled with a shrieking whoosh followed by a blinding flash beyond the oncoming mob. The grip on her neck instantly disappeared and Lizanne found herself once again tumbling in a blast wave. She used the last of her Green to turn into the blast and dig her boots in the earth, sliding to a crouching halt amidst the maelstrom. Looking up she saw the ground to her front littered with the unconscious or dead bodies of dozens of Spoiled. Beyond them a huge fire-ball rose from where the White had been only moments before.
Lizanne’s initial wave of joyful triumph plummeted into despair when she saw the beast rising through the roiling fire, flames licking at its wings but showing no obvious injury. Her sense of defeat increased as her eyes picked out something else. Four glowing orbs floated in the swirling dust above the wreckage of the cart. The crystals, she thought. It didn’t work.
Lizanne sank to her knees, head slumping as the product thinned in her veins. Hearing the shuffling of multiple boots she half-raised her head to see a group of Spoiled moving towards her, still partially stunned by the blast but retaining enough comprehension to aim their rifles at her. Wearily she took a firmer grip on her knife and tried to rise. But, finding she hadn’t the strength to do so, she reversed her grip on the handle and pressed it to her neck, the edge positioned precisely where it would sever the jugular.
A harsh, rattling growl came from above and she saw the upright Spoiled nearest to her slammed into the ground in several different pieces. Earth fountained as the growl came again, the other Spoiled falling in quick succession. Lizanne turned her gaze to the sky as a shadow fell over her, finding the broad curving shape of the Typhoon some fifty yards above. It was dark against the sky and she couldn’t see the face of her rescuer in the gondola’s lower hatch, though the invisible hand that reached down to pluck her from the earth was clue enough.
“Morva,” she muttered, her vision fading away as exhaustion claimed her. “I thought I told you to leave . . .”
CHAPTER 40
Hilemore
The fleet departed with the morning tide, witnessed by a mostly silent crowd. Parents waved and wept for the sons and daughters Hilemore was carrying away to war, children called to fathers and siblings, but there was no cheering. In the few days since the drake assault Stockcombe had resumed its prior state of division. The west-siders returned to their homes and the east side remained under the control of the Voters Committee, although their authority had waned considerably. Without a Blood-blessed to act as a conduit for the guidance of wiser heads Hilemore had serious doubts the status quo would continue for much longer. Coll, now sporting a bandaged nose and shorn of his Contractor’s duster, had become increasingly intolerant of dissent, forcing some of the committee members to resign and making most decisions without recourse to discussion. Factions were already forming around the former committee members and there were reports of protests which quickly degenerated into brawls.
Hilemore found he had to resist the compulsion to stay and provide some form of government for the city he had fought to defend, even if it amounted to little more than a military dictatorship. But he couldn’t allow Stockcombe to become his concern, something starkly underlined by Clay once they cleared the harbour.
“Who is Catheline Dewsmine?” Hilemore asked, the name meaning nothing to him.
“Wondered that myself,” Clay admitted. They were on the walkway outside the bridge, Clay having emerged from a lengthy and apparently sobering trance with the eminent Miss Blood. “According to Miss Lethridge she was kind of famous. Guess her fame never reached Arradsia though.”
“Catheline Dewsmine is the eldest child of the wealthy Dewsmine family,” an unexpected voice said, making them turn. Akina had been engaged in cleaning the bridgehouse windows and now stood regarding them with the smug air that came from possessing superior knowledge. “Despite being Blood-blessed she was exempt from Corporate service,” Akina went on in her accented but precise Mandinorian. “Upon entering managerial society she quickly became a sensation thanks to her beauty and charm. She was romantically linked with a number of actors, musicians and senior managers before succumbing to an unexplained nervous condition which required an extensive period of isolation.” Akina shrugged and flicked her wash-cloth before adding in Varestian, “She went over the rail and her family stuck her in a madhouse.”
“And how might you know this?” Hilemore enquired.
“Mr. Tottleborn,” she replied, referring to the one-time Blood-blessed of the Viable Opportunity who had met his untimely end at the Battle of the Strait. “He liked his periodicals. Catheline Dewsmine regularly featured in one called Scandal Monthly. He had a lot of those.”
“Thank you, sea-sister,” Hilemore said. He gestured for her to get back to work, which she did after a typically disdainful scowl.
“So,” he said to Clay, “a mad Blood-blessed is now leading the White’s forces.”
“Lead ain’t really the right word. It’s more like she’s the means by which the White leads.” Clay’s expression darkened and he let out a heavy sigh. “Silverpin warned me the next one would be worse. According to Miss Lethridge, she wasn’t wrong.”
“So, if I understand the military situation, the attempt to destroy this all-important Blue crystal was a failure but the blocking of the passes into Varestia was a success?”
“Seems about the size of it, yeah.”
“At least they bought us time. I know the Varestian region well and it’ll take weeks for an army of any reasonable size to proceed in force along the eastern coast of the peninsular.”
“A human army,” Clay pointed out. “This lot could well be different. You think we’ll be able to get this whole fleet across the ocean in time for it to matter?”
“What choice do we have? The deciding battle of this war will be fought there. We have to proceed with all the force we can bring to bear.”
Clay nodded but Hilemore saw a lingering uncertainty on his face. “You have an alternative suggestion?” Hilemore asked.
“Maybe, I ain’t sure yet. Let me think on it awhile.” Clay moved to Akina, taking the wash-cloth from her and tossing it into the bucket. “Let’s take a walk, kiddo,” he said, guiding her away. “What else can you tell me about Catheline Dewsmine?”
The Blacks flew overhead for much of the first day, descending to their ship-borne perches come nightfall. There were fifty of them in all, the fleet being incapable of carrying more, not least because several captains had flatly refused to have any drakes aboard their ships, citing protests from mutinous crews. Those vessels that did carry the beasts had their holds loaded with freshly hunted Cerath meat and all the livestock Stockcombe could provide. At Clay’s urging Hilemore issued stern instructions that the sailors make no attempt to communicate with the Blacks. “Just feed ’em and leave ’em be,” Clay said. “And in the name of the Seer’s ass, don’t try and touch ’em.”