He scanned the surrounding chaos, reeling amidst the fury of Jack’s continuing efforts to drive him out. Lutharon remembered the White, Clay thought. Even though he’d never seen it. Maybe one of Jack’s ancestors caught sight of it too. But if so, what then? The experiences of Jack’s forebears could hardly be sufficient to restore his sanity. Then something Silverpin’s ghost had said popped into his head, a small nugget of insight that reminded him she had been more than just the White’s vassaclass="underline" What are people, anyway, if not just a collection of memories?
Clay summoned all his will then unleashed it in an instant, blasting away the surrounding fog. He felt Jack shudder under the impact, his rage momentarily quelled by the burst of mental strength. Must be the heart-blood, Clay decided. Gives extra power in the trance.
He focused on the remnants of memory now drifting around him in an otherwise black void, finding fragmentary glimpses of yet more bloody, flame-soaked vengeance. Reaching out to one, a tight ball containing a vision of the attack on Kraghurst Station, he exerted his will again, forcing it into a tiny bead before crushing it to fragments. He moved on, roaming Jack’s mindscape and crushing all the traumatic memories he could find. Jack fought him, red lightning lashing out again and again, but with diminishing force as his memories died. Clay couldn’t get them all, some were too formless to be captured and others just snippets of barely remembered carnage. Here and there he encountered odd moments of serenity or even joy, mainly concerning Jack’s life before the raging insanity of his vengeance. These Clay left alone, though they were few and far between and certainly not enough to return this beast to sanity.
Confusion reigned in the mindscape as Clay crushed the last of the major horrors: the death throes of a Blue-hunter Jack had tormented for days, rearing up every few hours to roast a sailor or two before diving down to let the survivors ponder their impending fate. Humans, it seemed, had taught him the pleasures of sadism. All Jack’s resistance seeped away as the memory crumbled, leaving only the vaguest sense of who or what he was. I could just leave now, Clay knew. End the trance and let him wander the ice, mind broken forever. But what use was there in that?
Let’s see what your ancestors left you. Clay reached into his own memory, summoning the most vibrant image of the White he could find, that final glimpse beneath the mountain as it raged amongst the swarm of its newly hatched kin. Remind you of anything? he asked Jack, who failed to provide an answer. Clay expanded the memory, filling the surrounding void with it. Come on, must be something in here, something buried deep.
He saw it then, a faint glimmer in the void. Clay exerted his will, drawing the glimmer closer, feeding it with the memory of the White so that it grew, blossoming out into a view of a broad sky above a choppy grey sea. Blues churned the water on all sides, long bodies knifing through the waves, whilst above a battle raged. Drakes, Red and Black, wheeled below grey-white clouds, casting flames at each other or locking together in an ugly tangle of thrashing tails and snapping jaws. Drakes plummeted into the sea with grim regularity, either sinking immediately or struggling on the surface as their wounds leaked into the water. The Blues ignored the stricken Reds and swarmed over the Blacks with streaming fire and gnashing teeth. Clay could sense the blankness of the mind that had captured this memory, largely devoid of thought and filled only with a purpose not its own. Kill them, it commanded, the image shifting as the owner of these ancient eyes fixated on a maimed Black near by, trying vainly to take to the air with one undamaged wing. Kill them a—
Then it was gone. The purpose, the command. Vanished from the Blue’s mind and allowing an inrush of sensation. The Blue halted its charge as the urge towards combat faded, instead circling the struggling Black, casting out curious songs of greeting as its strength gave out and it slipped beneath the waves. The Blue cast its gaze to the sky, seeing that the warring factions had now separated, the Reds formed into a loose pack and striking out towards the north-east whilst the surviving Blacks made for the west. Clay managed to make out the dim but unmistakable figure of a human rider on at least one of the Blacks before they slipped into the cloud and were gone from view.
The end of the war, he realised. The first one. The White rose before and they defeated it, somehow.
He pushed the question aside, for it was clear the answer didn’t lie in the mind of this long-dead Blue. He sorted through the memories, finding it a far simpler creature than Jack, its songs joyous and possessing only the smallest tinge of rage. A simple soul, Clay thought, fighting down a pang of guilt. Not sure you’re gonna like your new home.
The chill gripped him like a steel fist the moment the trance faded, forcing out a gasp that would have been a yell if he had the breath for it. He bobbed in the swell as the huge Blue sank back into the water, retreating a short distance to hover close by, its head barely above the surface with one wide eye fixed on Clay. He could feel its song thrumming the water, rich in distress. It seemed the trance had left him with an understanding of Blue-song.
A splash drew Clay’s gaze to the left, where he found Kriz and Loriabeth struggling to keep Lieutenant Sigoral’s head above the water. The Corvantine’s face was bleached white and his one good eye dimmed. A series of splashes came from the right, accompanied by the overlapping whine of multiple bullets and the faint crackle of rifle fire. The distress song from the Blue that had been Last Look Jack rose in pitch as he recoiled from the hail of projectiles, sinking lower in the water.
“Stop—!” Clay shouted, twisting about to face the ship, his words choked off behind chattering teeth. He could see a row of armed men at the rail, Uncle Braddon among them. Preacher stood tall in the crow’s nest, rifle at his shoulder. More worryingly, Lieutenant Steelfine and Captain Hilemore were frantically trying to manoeuvre a cannon into place. The gun had clearly suffered some damage, its barrel thickly wrapped with rope, making Clay wonder if the act of firing it would pose more of a danger to the crew than to Jack.
Clay dragged a deep breath into his lungs and called out with all the volume he could muster: “STOP FUCKING SHOOTING!” The words echoed across the intervening water, heralding a pause in activity on the ship. Clay saw Hilemore straighten from the cannon in evident confusion.
“Clay!” Loriabeth gasped and he turned to see Sigoral slip from her grasp. Clay swam towards them and dived, managing to grab hold of the Corvantine’s jacket before he sank beyond reach, dragging him back to the surface. Kriz and Loriabeth closed in, the three of them kicking frantically to bear Sigoral up. A series of shouts came from the ship, Clay craning his neck to see Hilemore directing a party to lower a boat into the water. Won’t be enough time, Clay knew with a grim certainty, turning back to regard Sigoral’s bloodless complexion. It was also clear that Kriz and Loriabeth were fast approaching their limits as the water’s chill sapped their reserves of strength.