They burned Sirus on a pyre constructed atop the hill where he died. The Spoiled lay his body on a pile of Green corpses, the plain being so lacking in trees. The bones and shredded flesh that constituted the White’s remains were added to the pile, along with the bodies of the two juveniles. The body of Catheline Dewsmine had been left where it lay, none of the Spoiled showing the slightest inclination towards touching it. When it was done Lizanne injected Red whilst Clay drank a vial and together they blasted the pyre with heat, the blaze soon consuming its grisly fuel and birthing a thick, foul-smelling smoke that rose into the darkening sky.
Lizanne retreated from the fierce heat, pausing when she saw Clay lingering, something clutched in his hand as he stared into the flames. He stood with a slight stoop, his face drawn in a persistent pain large doses of Green had yet to erase and she worried what internal injuries he might have suffered. He looks like an old man, she thought. She ran a hand through her hair, thick with sweat and assorted grime, and it occurred to her that her own appearance was hardly any more edifying.
“What’s that?” she asked him, nodding at the object in his hand.
He glanced at her, holding it up. It was a vial, the contents impossible to discern in the glow of the fire. “Just some old product,” he said, tossing it into the flames. “Reckon it’s gone bad.”
They moved back, Lizanne going to Tekela’s side and drawing her into an embrace when she saw the tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” Tekela sobbed into her shoulder. “For flying off . . .”
“So you should be.” Lizanne drew back a little, smoothing the hair away from Tekela’s face. “Need to get some Green on those scars,” she said, reaching to extract a vial from her Spider.
“Leave it,” Tekela said, turning back to the fire and resting her head on Lizanne’s shoulder. “They’re not so bad.”
The surrounding Spoiled, several thousand strong, stood around the hill-top in silence as they watched the fire consume their general. Lizanne could see their brows twitching and knew that however still their voices might be, the mind of every living Spoiled was joined in grief.
She had used her scant remaining Blue to trance with Sofiya Griffan, requesting that she communicate the terms of the Spoiled’s surrender to Captain Trumane and the rest of the Varestian Defence League’s high command. She found the woman’s trance had changed, the dark forest regaining some colour, though there was a guarded feeling to it, the air shot through with an aura of tense expectation.
Something to tell me? Lizanne had asked her.
Sofiya’s trance thrummed with momentary indecision before she replied, Lizanne discerning a great deal more from her thoughts than her words. The Free Protectorate Fleet has arrived, she said. Captain Trumane has accepted a commission as Commodore.
How fortuitous for him, Lizanne observed.
Their arrival was fortuitous for all of us, Sofiya returned. Had they not, the battle might have gone against . . .
How long have you been in contact with Exceptional Initiatives?
The sky above the forest turned a faint shade of red, Lizanne detecting both shame and defiance in Sofiya’s emotions.
I recall asking you to pass on the weapons designs to the Protectorate, Lizanne continued. I said nothing about Exceptional Initiatives. I assume the Protectorate never actually received the designs. What else have you told them, Sofiya?
I have a child to think of, Sofiya replied, her mindscape darkening into something wind-swept and hostile. I should like them to grow up in as safe and comfortable a place as possible.
Was contacting Exceptional Initiatives Captain Trumane’s idea or yours?
The wind grew stiffer, twisting the branches of the surrounding trees so that they resembled snakes coiling for a strike. The captain has been a good and loyal friend in these difficult times, Sofiya replied, Lizanne sensing a dangerous edge to her thoughts.
I am glad to find you recovered from your grief, Lizanne told her and ended the trance.
“Come on,” she said, taking hold of Tekela’s hand and moving to Clay’s side. “The Superior,” she said. “Have you tranced with anyone on board?”
He nodded. “Lieutenant Sigoral, says they’ve taken some bad knocks but she’s still afloat.”
“Good. We have to go.” She turned, leading him towards the Firefly. “Now.”
Morva slipped into unconsciousness during the flight to the Redoubt. Lizanne and Clay carried her to the subterranean chamber where the League had established a makeshift hospital. It was full of wounded, the air musty with stale blood and filled with the constant murmuration of hundreds of people in pain.
“Lucky we’re not wanting for Green,” a grey-faced doctor told Lizanne as he examined Morva. She and Clay had been obliged to remove a recently expired Varestian pirate in order to provide an empty bed. “Plenty of drakes piled up outside. The harvesters are working flat out to refine it.” The doctor lifted the lid of Morva’s right eye, grunting in satisfaction. “She’s still with us,” he said. “And her pulse is strong.” His expression grew more severe as he turned his gaze to Morva’s burn-covered legs. “As for these . . .”
“Use any amount of Green necessary,” Lizanne instructed.
Seeing the implacable glint in her eye, he nodded. “It’ll repair much of the tissue damage, but the scars . . .”
“A Lokaras is always proud of their scars.”
Lizanne turned to find a bedraggled Alzar Lokaras striding towards them, his gaze dark as he surveyed his adopted niece. “Especially when earned in battle,” he added in a more subdued tone. He jerked his head at the doctor, sending the man scurrying to fetch the product. “So,” Alzar said, Lizanne seeing how his hand hovered near Morva’s. “It appears we have a victory, Miss Blood.”
“Won with her help,” Lizanne said. “Your niece had a hand in killing the White. Is that sufficient to finally win your approval, Captain?”
She was expecting anger but he barely shrugged. “I didn’t adopt her, you know,” he said softly. “Not truly. I met to trade with some Dalcian reavers. She escaped from the cage they had her in and stowed away on my ship. They came after us, thinking I’d stolen her. Reavers are not easily dissuaded from battle, so we fought. I lost crew that day, including my son.” Lizanne saw him extend a finger to tap the back of Morva’s hand. “When it was over I wanted to throw her to the King of the Deep, but I couldn’t. She was just a little girl who took a chance at freedom. So I took her back to the High Wall, but I never let her call me father. Only ever uncle.”
Lizanne moved to Morva’s side, smoothing back the hair from her head. “She’s my best pupil,” she murmured, for some reason finding the unwelcome face of Madame Bondersil coming to mind. At least I didn’t try to kill her, she thought, pushing the image away.
“I have to go,” she told Alzar. “Will you stay with her?”
“My ship burned and sank,” he replied. “For the moment it seems I have nowhere else to be.”
Arberus had his arm in a sling, the shoulder having been broken by a tail strike from one of the few Greens to make it over the wall at the height of the battle. He appeared even more aged than Clay, face sagging with fatigue as he cast his gaze over the mass of bodies below the Redoubt. They were thickest around the gates, piled up in a great ring around the crater, a legacy of the rocket fired by the Free Protectorate cruiser now moored off shore along with a flotilla of six frigates. As a result of all the damage and destruction wrought on the Varestian ships this small fleet now constituted the dominant maritime force on the globe.