“Then you probably shouldn’t have bred the thing,” Clay said. “But since you did I’d say it’s up to you to put it right.” He tapped a finger to the map. “Let’s start here. There’s an old legend about a marvellous flying treasure ship that came to rest at the bottom of Krystaline Lake. I’m guessing your item of importance has something to do with that.”
“I assume so, but it wasn’t a ship.” She opened her eyes and Clay noticed her knuckles were now pale on the crystal shard. “It was an aerostat, like the one we used to escape the enclave below. It was stolen by my brother when he made his own escape thousands of years ago.”
“Your brother?” Clay asked. “You mean one of the other Blood-blessed kids.”
“Hezkhi.” She nodded. “He grew up to be our best pilot, and probably the most impetuous soul amongst us. I don’t know all of it, not yet.”
Clay’s hand traced along the chain around his own neck in unconscious mimicry of Kriz, pausing on the vials beneath his shirt. One contained heart-blood, scavenged from the corpse of a slain Black beneath the ice. The other held a small, congealed amount of blood from the diseased White that Kriz had reduced to ash with her bomb-throwing gun. Could save a whole lot of trouble, he thought. One sip could show us the way. He discounted the notion almost instantly, remembering the intense disorientation of his first experience in harnessing the power it held. It seemed to him that a human mind simply wasn’t attuned to perceiving the future and feared for his sanity should he try it again. Added to that was the deep sense of uncertainty it engendered. Once, he would have assumed such a gift would banish all doubts, provide answers to all problems. Instead it only raised endless questions.
Letting his hand slip from the vials, Clay nodded at the shard in her fist. “I guess that’s got the whole story, huh?”
“Zembi’s memories,” she said, opening her hand to show them the dagger-like length of crystal. “But I’ll need what’s on the aerostat to access them. Hezkhi escaped the enclave, and whatever killed the others and made Zembi into that . . . thing. That’s what he told me as he lay dying. Hezkhi flew away and he took something with him.” Her fingers traced over the irregular elongated arrow-head form of Krystaline Lake. “There’s another crystal there . . . a black crystal. And if anything can defeat the White, it’s that.”
Jack towed them clear of the bergs a day later. Clay could feel the drake’s burgeoning exhaustion as he dragged the Dreadfire out into the Whirls, the broad stretch of water that formed a minor sea between the Chokes and what had been the solid ice-wall of the Shelf.
Let it go, he told the Blue, standing on the prow as had become his custom over the past few days. He sent an image of a slackened cable along with the thought and Jack immediately opened his jaws. He rolled as the hawser slipped from his mouth, Clay sensing his joy at the release. He could also feel Jack’s hunger, something that had grown to alarming proportions as the voyage through the ice wore on.
Go, Clay told him, sending images of whales and walruses he had found in Old Jack’s memories. Hunt. Come back when you’re strong.
Jack lingered on the surface for a moment, his eyes bobbing above the surface. Clay could sense his reluctance to be separated from their connection. Distance don’t matter, Clay assured him, uncertain whether the beast could understand the concept. I’ll hear you however far you go.
Twin columns of smoke issued from Jack’s nostrils as he grunted in apparent assent before disappearing from view. Clay followed him for a while, sharing the sensations of the hunt as the Blue dived deep, his incredibly sharp ears tuned for any betraying echo that might lead him to prey. Within seconds he had it, a series of faint splashes and muted barks that told of a seal pack several miles east. Clay withdrew his thoughts as Jack sped off in pursuit.
“We seem to have lost our engine, Mr. Torcreek.”
Clay turned to find Hilemore and his hulking second in command standing close by. The captain’s demeanour towards him had become less suspiciously judgemental during the voyage, but the Islander’s expression told of an unalloyed mistrust. Such an attitude should have made Clay wary of the man, he was even taller and broader across the shoulders than Cralmoor, another dangerous Islander of Clay’s previous acquaintance. However, he took comfort from the sense that Steelfine was incapable of doing anything unless ordered by his captain.
“He’s hungry,” Clay replied. “He’ll be back soon enough.”
“Whilst we drift on the current in the meantime,” Steelfine pointed out.
“Got an anchor, haven’t you?”
Clay moved away, ignoring the Islander’s ominous scowl as he descended the steps to the hold. He found Loriabeth at Sigoral’s side, a spot she had rarely strayed from since coming aboard. Clay was relieved to find the Corvantine awake, though his face appeared worryingly gaunt as he drank the thin broth Loriabeth had concocted from the ship’s rapidly dwindling stores.
“Good to have you back, Lieutenant,” Clay told him, surprised by his own sincerity. The man was a Corvantine Imperial Officer of somewhat duplicitous nature, and therefore technically an enemy. However, Clay knew he and his cousin would most likely have died beneath the ice but for Sigoral’s skill with a carbine. Also, he was a Blood-blessed and therefore too valuable a companion for the trials ahead to allow any lingering resentment.
“I had a dream in which I was drowning in piss,” Sigoral replied, grimacing as he took another spoonful of broth. “It tasted better than this.” He shrank back as Loriabeth aimed a swipe at his head.
“That was the mask,” Clay said, taking a seat on a near by barrel. He went on to explain about the gas and Jack’s role in hauling them clear of Mount Reygnar. “We had us an eventful voyage so far. And it ain’t over.”
“Have you told the captain . . . ?” Sigoral trailed off, affording both Clay and Loriabeth a questioning glance.
“That you’re a lying, double-faced Corvie shithead?” Loriabeth said. “Sure, we told him.”
“Needed to know there was another Blood-blessed on board,” Clay added. “It’s his ship after all, such as it is.”
He turned as a stream of muttered gibberish sounded from the neighbouring bunk. Scrimshine had sunk into a semiconscious state after Skaggerhill dosed him with all their remaining Green. His colour was better and his bouts of coughing had abated, but he showed little sign of waking save for the occasional bout of babbling in an unfamiliar Dalcian dialect.
“I bet Skaggs twenty scrip he don’t make it,” Loriabeth said, the callousness of the remark contrasted by the softness of her voice.
“You’ll lose,” Clay told her. “Seen his kind before, they only ever die old. It’s like life just ain’t mean enough to kill them.”
Jack still hadn’t returned by nightfall, although the images of reddened waters and dismembered seals told Clay he had at least partially sated his hunger. The crew shared a sparse meal of soup, Sigoral joining them for the first time. He wore an eye-patch over his still-unhealed orb and Clay saw how his features tensed as he fought to control the repeated spasms of pain. Conversation was muted and frequently interrupted by Scrimshine’s delirious outbursts.
“Least he’s got the energy to swear,” Loriabeth observed after another lengthy Dalcian diatribe.
“He’s not cursing, miss,” Hilemore told her. “He’s praying.”