The captives they had taken at the Jet Sands had confirmed the identity of his opponent and Sirus would very much have liked to see Arberus’s face at the instant he realised his efforts had all been for nothing. He had never particularly cared for the major, finding his attitude to Tekela disconcertingly opposite to his own. Though she called him “Uncle,” at her father’s insistence, Sirus had long perceived a lack of warmth between the two. The fact that Arberus was half a foot taller and much admired by the female nobility of Morsvale hadn’t done much to endear him to Sirus either.
Such adolescent notions you cling to, General, Catheline’s thought popped into his head, amused and judgemental in equal measure. Sometimes I forget how young you were.
As do I, Sirus admitted. It all seems so far away. Like a dream of someone else’s life.
As it should. We all have new lives now, for which we should be grateful.
The first mine exploded directly beneath the first line of Varestian trenches, bathing the darkened plain in yellow-orange light, Sirus watching the debris and bodies tumble in the rising ball of flame. The size of the crater was as Veilmist had predicted, leaving a hole thirty feet wide. It had taken the Spoiled a total of sixty hours to dig the three tunnels and pack them with explosives. Arberus had presumably expected a massed night-time assault, which he would shortly receive, but only after the mines had done their work in piercing the outer defences.
The next two mines exploded barely two seconds later, with similarly gratifying results, the glow revealing ten battalions of Spoiled rising from their own trenches and advancing across the plain at the run. A dozen rocket flares streamed into the sky from the fortified ridge-line above the trenches, banishing the dark and heralding a barrage from the guns along the walls. Shells tore into the ranks of the attacking Spoiled, felling dozens at a time. Casualties increased as a few repeating guns opened fire from the undamaged sections of the enemy trench, inflicting heavy losses, but none of it was enough to stop the tide.
The Spoiled boiled over the outer trench, Sirus feeling the pain, joy and death of close-quarters combat as they battled the human defenders. Glimpsing the struggle through Forest Spear’s eyes, he was struck by the savagery of the Varestians, most of them eschewing fire-arms to fight with swords and knives, seemingly without any regard for their own survival.
Pirate scum, Catheline surmised, taking the measure of the Varestians’ clothing.
Pirate scum with an inconvenient amount of courage, Sirus replied, noting the continued fighting all along the trench. Frenzied mêlées were raging in each of the craters and the trench itself was choked with Spoiled and humans locked in desperate combat. As yet, he could see no evidence of the hoped-for flight to the second trench line. The fiercest resistance came wherever the enemy had placed a Blood-blessed, the Varestians clustering around them as they blasted the attackers with Red and Black. Some leading desperate countercharges with sword or clubbed rifle in hand, the Green in their veins making them more than a match for any Spoiled.
A swift survey of minds revealed a spot close to where the first mine had exploded which appeared to be free of Blood-blessed. Sirus immediately ordered another four battalions into the attack, aiming them at this point. They streamed across the plain, covering the distance with a speed no human could match, but that didn’t spare them the attentions of the Varestian gunners or their fleet.
The cannon on the Redoubt kept up a steady fire but the most damaging barrage came from the ships off shore. Shells arced down in a continuous torrent, aimed with expert precision to explode above rather than amongst the advancing Spoiled. The lead battalion was cut to pieces in the barrage, only about a fifth of them managing to press home their attack, whilst the battalions following behind fared little better. However, the sudden arrival of additional numbers at the crucial point finally told and soon Spoiled were spilling through into the flat ground beyond the trench.
A plethora of bugle calls and shouted orders ran the length of the trench, evidently the signal for the defenders to withdraw. In an obviously pre-rehearsed manoeuvre the humans abandoned the struggle and immediately sprinted towards the second line whilst the Varestian ships lowered their sights to rake the conquered trench in shell-fire. The Spoiled who had broken through on the left pelted towards the second line only to be met by a hail of fire from well-positioned repeating guns. None of them managed to get within twenty yards of the trench and Sirus ordered the survivors to withdraw to the first line.
The ship-borne fire continued, Sirus feeling the death or maiming of multiple Spoiled with every exploding shell. It petered out as the flares guttered and died, leaving the battlefield mostly in darkness save for Nelphia’s glow. Small-arms fire continued to crackle as sharpshooters in the second trench and the Redoubt trained their longrifles on the first trench, though they scored only a few hits.
A good start, don’t you think? Catheline asked.
I had hoped to take the second trench in the first assault, Sirus replied. We need to do something about those ships.
A singular paradox of being in proximity to the White was that he didn’t need to engage with the increasingly difficult task of summoning fear to mask his thoughts. Being close enough to smell the sulphurous breath of the beast, and see the awful, knowing gleam of its eyes, birthed all the terror he could ever need. As before he felt the communication between Catheline and the White rather than heard it as thought-speech. The deep lust for vengeance that had characterised its thoughts ever since the loss of the infants at the Grand Cut was still present in full force, but the intervening time had also seen a resurgence of the beast’s innate cunning.
It responded with a disconcerting rumble as Catheline communicated the essence of Sirus’s plan. Whilst it never balked at casualties amongst the Spoiled, risking the lives of so many drakes was another matter. Smoke streamed from the White’s nostrils as it turned about, pacing back and forth. It had established itself on the summit of a hill-top, the only high ground to be found on the plain. It offered an uninterrupted view of the fortified isthmus a mile away where its quarry waited. The two surviving infants were at work close by on one of their bone towers, squawking in apparent contentment as they fused the remains together with regurgitated bile. Sirus assumed the bones had been supplied by the other drakes, fruits of their labour at the Jet Sands.
Necessity, Catheline emoted, receiving a pulse of angry reluctance in response as the White turned its baleful gaze on them, Sirus noting the small sparks amidst the smoke rising from his nostrils.
He had never before sought to intervene in a communication between Catheline and the White, but did so now. Summoning all the memories he could of Lizanne Lethridge, he entwined them with the image of the dead infant Whites, condensing it all into a dark ball of sensation before offering it to Catheline.
Revenge, she thought, accepting Sirus’s gift, breaking the ball of memory apart so it expanded in the White’s mind. For the briefest moment Sirus was able to share the link between them, experiencing it as an image of a dark roiling sea of fire shot through with veins of light. Wherever the light touched the fire the flames calmed, became placid, taking on a semblance of order.