“Send an acknowledgment, Mr. Talmant,” Hilemore said. “Then signal the engine room to increase speed to one-third.”
His briefly uplifted spirits plummeted upon clearing the wallowing hulk of the Viable and it was a struggle to keep the dismay from his features as the situation ashore stood revealed. The White’s army were boiling up the slopes of the ridge, resembling a huge swarm of ants as they clambered over one another, the bodies forming together to create a ladder of flesh. They fell by the hundred to the defenders on the walls above, massed rifle and repeating guns reaping a terrible toll, but the tide of drake and Spoiled continued to rise inexorably.
Hilemore called down to Steelfine to rig the shells to detonate on impact and have the guns fire into the base of the massed bodies. Their first pass succeeded in reducing the height of the mass by several yards, blasting grisly red holes into it that seemed to be healed almost instantly. The Superior circled around for another pass, achieving less impressive results. The shells evidently killed a large number of Spoiled and Greens, but the mound continued to grow. Raising his spy-glass, he soon saw why. The Spoiled were gathering up the bodies and parts of those killed by the barrage and pushing them back into the mass. They were using the flesh of their fallen as building material.
Raising his glass higher, he saw that the top of the mass was now only yards away from cresting the Redoubt walls. In desperation he brought the Superior round again, moving at dead slow to allow a maximum number of broadsides, the guns this time ordered to aim at the top of the mass. This succeeded in reducing its height in some places, but not all, forcing Hilemore to an unwelcome conclusion. We are only one ship, and the ammunition won’t last forever.
Their stocks of explosive shells were already down to six rounds per gun, although they did have copious stocks of cannister but the range was too great for it to be effective. He had only one more manoeuvre to try and, although the consequences were obvious, it was either this or just sail away.
“Mr. Scrimshine,” he said, “prepare to steer hard a-starboard on my command. Mr. Talmant, spread the word to the crew. Load cannister and stand ready to run aground.”
He saw in annoyance that Talmant wasn’t listening, instead the lieutenant had his ear pressed to the crow’s nest speaking-tube, eyes wide in shock. “Mr. Talmant!” Hilemore snapped, causing the young officer to snap to attention.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just . . . crow’s nest reports ships to the north.”
“There are ships all over this particular stretch of sea, Lieutenant. Sadly, none of them seem to be in a position to assist us at present.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Not Varestian ships . . .”
Talmant’s voice was drowned out by a loud whooshing sound that filled the bridge as something very large passed overhead at considerable speed. He managed to catch sight of the point of impact, the explosion dwarfing the Superior’s efforts with a blast that exceeded all the shells they had fired that day. The detonation turned the world white and sent the ship reeling back from the shore, Hilemore feeling a hard, stinging impact to the back of his head before the whiteness turned to black.
CHAPTER 54
Clay
This is not my body . . . He repeated the thought, over and over, jerking as he fought the pain. My body is whole. There is no pain. This is not my body, my body is whole, there is no pain. This is not my body my body is whole there is no pain!
He let out a shout as the pain vanished, his shattered spine fusing back together, reforged by sheer effort of will. But though he could exert control over his own mental image, the prison that held him rested in the mind of Catheline Dewsmine, who at this juncture seemed unlikely to return.
Clay got to his feet, eyes roving the featureless iron cube of his cell. Clever or not, he thought, she’s still crazy. There has to be a crack somewhere.
He scoured the walls, hands tracing over the rough metal, looking for some small fissure in the surface, something he could pry apart. Several minutes of searching produced nothing but, as he retreated from the walls, grunting in frustration, something scraped beneath his boot. Looking down he saw it was one of the pictures that had fallen from the mantelpiece above the fire when it transformed. The fire-place was gone now but this picture remained. Crouching, he picked it up, expecting to find an image of Catheline in her younger days, or a photostat of her unfortunate parents. Instead it was a Spoiled wearing a military uniform. The same one from the hill-top, Clay realised, recalling Lizanne’s shared memories from recent trances. Sirus. Guess she must like you to keep your image in her favourite memory.
As the thought rose, rich in self-recrimination at allowing himself to be trapped, he saw the image shift in the frame. The deformed face of Sirus turned, looking out at him in clear recognition. Clay stared back, watching Sirus’s lips move. He brought the picture closer, straining to hear the words.
I’m dying, Sirus told him in a strangely matter-of-fact tone. It struck Clay as the voice of a man entirely accepting of his fate, free of fear or desperation. He almost envied him. She kept something of me, Sirus went on. I suppose she wanted to be able to talk sometimes. I suspect she gets very lonely.
Yeah, Clay said. That’s too bad. You got anything useful to share?
I don’t think so. I had a plan, you see? A grand scheme to free us all, set the Spoiled to rebellion and bring down the White. But it was just a childish folly. She knew. The Spoiled cannot be freed. Once it takes us, it binds us forever.
No, Clay told him. That ain’t right. There were free Spoiled once. They helped bring it down before.
The picture-frame suddenly became hot in Clay’s hand, the image of Sirus emitting a soft glow. How?
Ain’t something to be said. More something to be felt. It was the gift of the Black drakes, they showed me. And I can show you.
The frame grew hotter, the glow brighter. Clay felt Sirus’s thoughts lose their reflective apathy, replaced by a fierce, rage-fuelled need. Do you have it? he demanded.
Clay found the required memory quickly enough, but as this was not his mind the ability to form it into something he could share was limited. In his own mindscape he could have refashioned Nelphia’s surface, here all he had was what he carried with him. He drew his revolver, remoulding it into a ball of gun-metal the size of his fist. Concentrating hard, he brought to mind the crystals he had seen in the Enclave, and the Black crystal Kriz retrieved from Krystaline Lake. The ball of grey metal began to change, growing spines and the hard dull surface turning to glass. With the crystal complete, Clay summoned the memory Lutharon’s ancestors had shared with him. The crystal began to take on a soft glow as Clay poured in the memory.