“She’d run on wood well enough,” Skaggerhill put in from the tiller before casting a sour glance at their surroundings. “If there was any to be had round here.”
“How about reducing speed?” Clay asked. “Won’t she burn less then?”
“We’re barely making headway as it is,” Skaggerhill said. “Any slower and we’ll be standing still.”
“We could harvest some reeds,” Sigoral suggested. “They should burn.”
“Not enough . . .” Kriz frowned, evidently translating the explanation in her head. “Energy. Besides, we would need to dry them out first.”
Clay turned his gaze to the prow where his uncle sat in customary, unspeaking vigilance. He had barely moved from the spot so far, except to partake of a brief meal or clean his rifle. “Any guidance to offer here, Uncle?” Clay called to him. “You know this place, right?”
He wasn’t sure Braddon would answer. He hadn’t said a word since setting off and even Loriabeth’s attempts to elicit a response had met with either non-committal grunts or outright silence. Today, however, he seemed willing to talk. “There’s an island,” he said, not turning. “’Bout ten miles on where the river widens. It’s got trees on it.” He paused and added, “Greens too, most likely.”
Clay’s gaze automatically began to scan the river, as it did whenever mention of Greens was made. So far they hadn’t seen a single sign of any drakes, not even a ripple in the Quilam’s swift-flowing surface. Even so, the sense of being observed had lingered ever since leaving the Superior. This is their place, he reminded himself. Even before the White I doubt they appreciated visitors.
“Can’t be helped,” he said, forcing a brisk decisiveness into his tone. It was something he noticed Hilemore tended to do when things weren’t going well. “There’s no walking out of here. Lieutenant, how long before we make this island?”
Sigoral briefly consulted his map and compass. “It’s not marked on this chart,” he said. “But assuming it’s to be found ten miles on, we should be there by late afternoon.”
“Everyone clean and load your iron,” Clay said. “Preacher, when we get there I want you at the prow with Uncle Braddon. You two’ll kill any Greens on the island, the rest of us will keep them off the boat.”
True to Sigoral’s calculation the island came into view a few minutes past the seventeenth hour. It was formed of a narrow spit of land some two hundred yards long and about fifty wide with, Clay was relieved to see, a copse of stunted but thick-limbed trees rising from its centre.
“What d’you see?” he asked Preacher as Skaggerhill steered them towards the eastern shore of the island.
The marksman took a moment to thoroughly scan the place before replying. “Only two. Starting to stir. Looks like the engine woke them up.”
“Take ’em as soon as you’re sure of the shot,” Clay said, pistol in one hand and vials of Red, Green and Black in the other as his gaze roved the river and the banks. Braddon fired almost immediately, the shot like a thunder-clap as it echoed across the water. His Protectorate-issue rifle had been equipped with a telescopic sight, a gift from the Superior’s armoury courtesy of Mr. Steelfine, enabling a clean kill even at this range. He worked the bolt and fired again after only the slightest pause, grunting, “Got both.”
“Take us in,” Clay told Skaggerhill then crouched to retrieve the bag of tools Chief Bozware had stowed in the lower hull. The engineer had had the foresight to include a saw and a pair of axes. “Me and the lieutenant will gather the fuel. The rest of you watch the water.”
He drank a full vial of Green and nodded at Sigoral to do the same. They leapt clear of the Malynda as Skaggerhill grounded her on the island’s sandy eastern bank, rushing into the trees in search of the most easily harvested timber. Sigoral chose a sapling and set about its trunk with the axe, hacking through it in less than a minute. Clay found a more thickly bodied tree farther in, the trunk too broad to be felled, but with a number of easily severed branches. By the time the Green wore off they had amassed a considerable pile of wood, albeit of less-than-regular proportions.
“Guess carpentry ain’t your strong suit,” Skaggerhill observed, eyeing the pile in amusement.
“We’ll saw it up on the boat,” Clay said, gathering logs into his arms. “Lend a hand here, will you?”
They had piled most of the wood onto the boat when he heard a commotion in the trees. Recognising Loriabeth’s voice raised in anger and alarm, Sigoral immediately snatched up his carbine and charged into the undergrowth, Clay and the others close behind.
“Just stop it, Pa! Please!” They found Loriabeth in a small clearing, staring at her father in shocked misery, tears shining in her eyes. Braddon stood a short distance away, hefting something in his hands. Something small that wriggled and screeched as he swung it up and then down. The screeching abruptly ceased as the thing’s head made contact with a boulder, the skull cracking open to spill blood and brains.
A chorus of screeches dragged Clay’s gaze from the grisly sight to a pair of infant Greens. They scrabbled about in a nest surrounded by the remnants of their scorched shells, hides shifting colour in distress. Only just hatched, Clay realised as his uncle bent to retrieve one of the infants, grabbing it by the hind legs and swinging it up and back.
“Uncle,” Clay said, wincing as the infant’s head connected with the boulder, its brains mixing with that of its sibling. Loriabeth let out a sob and took an involuntary step towards her father, fists balled. Clay caught her before she could launch herself at Braddon, who barely seemed to notice.
“That’s enough, Uncle,” Clay said as Braddon tossed the dead infant aside and reached for the last one. He appeared deaf to Clay’s words, tearing his arm away as Clay reached for him.
“Captain!” Skaggerhill had arrived at the clearing and stood staring at the scene, eyes wide and appalled.
“It’s time for them to die, Skaggs,” Braddon said, reaching for the final infant. “All of them.”
“Contractor’s code,” Skaggerhill said, stepping forward to grip Braddon by the shoulders. The harvester gave a brief shake of his captain’s shoulders. “Young ’uns are left be. Elst what are we gonna hunt in days to come?”
“Time for hunting’s over,” Braddon replied, Clay seeing a strange emptiness in his uncle’s eyes as he regarded Skaggerhill. “It’s time for slaughter now. Ain’t no room in this world for both us and them. The thing that commands them sees it. Time we did too.”
He tried to shrug off Skaggerhill’s hands but the harvester held on, a certain desperate bafflement creeping into his voice as he said, “This ain’t you, Captain. And it ain’t us . . .”
His words were abruptly drowned out by the flat crack of a longrifle from the direction of the boat, followed soon after by a flurry of pistol shots. “Greens!” Clay said. “Get back to the Malynda.”
Sigoral and Loriabeth immediately sprinted off, followed by Skaggerhill after a brief, hesitant glance at Braddon, who stood unmoving, gaze locked on the squalling infant drake. It had calmed now and stared up at its would-be murderer, yellow eyes blinking as it let out a series of chirps, small tail sweeping from side to side.
“Let’s go, Uncle,” Clay said, his voice pitched just below a shout. Braddon took a step towards the infant, boot raised. “I said, let’s go!” Clay stepped between his uncle and the drake, meeting his gaze and finding the previous emptiness replaced with dark, quivering fury.