Sporadic resistance had flared up in the city as remnants of the Sairvek garrison mounted a few desperate and easily contained counter-attacks. The Blood Cadre agent made a reappearance as the fire reached the grand square at the centre of the city. She proceeded to put on a spectacular display of Blood-blessed abilities that left a dozen Spoiled dead along with several Greens. Her valiant stand came to an end when Katarias descended from the sky to bathe the woman in a torrent of fire, leaving her a pile of smoking ash on the square’s cobbled surface. Sirus made a well-concealed mental note to learn her name if he ever got the chance.
“Four thousand two hundred and seventy conversions already,” Veilmist reported to the conference of captains two days later after they gathered aboard the Malign Influence. “The overall yield is projected to exceed fifty thousand by the end of the week. There are numerous villages in the region which are adding to the total.”
“Over twice the yield at Melkorin,” Catheline observed, arching an eyebrow at Morradin. “Quite impressive, wouldn’t you agree, Marshal?”
Morradin’s eyes flicked to Sirus before he replied in a colourless mutter, “Yes, an impressive victory won against minimal opposition.”
Catheline’s expression darkened a fraction and might have led to more punishment if Sirus hadn’t added, “The Marshal is correct. Opposition was weak here, and poorly organised. From the intelligence we have gleaned it seems the city authorities had been rendered into a state of disarray by the revolution. Some wanted to send envoys to the rebels, but the majority held loyalist sympathies. In the face of mounting discord the garrison commander declared martial law some weeks ago, apparently at the behest of the local Cadre representative.”
“That heroic bitch you were so impressed by, you mean?” Catheline said, Sirus detecting a faint trickle of jealousy leaking from her thoughts.
“Yes,” he said, seeing little point in subterfuge. She always saw more than he suspected and considered himself fortunate she hadn’t yet uncovered his hidden machinations. “The point is we can’t expect opposition to be so ineffective in future. Word of what happened here will already be spreading. Fear will breed unity.”
Catheline lowered her gaze to the map of the region, finger tapping at the port of Subarisk some sixty miles westward. “Our next source of recruits. It’s the largest port on the coast, is it not?”
“Over two million inhabitants,” Veilmist said. “Defended by a full division of Imperial troops and a seven-strong flotilla of warships.”
“The harbour wall is formidable,” Sirus added. “Gun batteries on the wall itself and a series of island forts defending the approaches.”
“But we have lots of lovely new ships,” Catheline said. “Do we not?”
“We captured thirty-three merchant vessels in Melkorin harbour,” Sirus confirmed. “But only one warship, an aged customs cutter with only three guns.”
“You’re saying we can’t take this port?” she asked, voice pitched into a soft, intent murmur as she surveyed each Spoiled at the table. “But, you see, that can’t be right. For I want it, and He wants it.” She fixed Sirus with as cold a stare as she had ever shown him. “Find a way, General,” she said before sweeping from the room, Sirus quelling the surge of self-annoyance for enjoying the perfume she left in her wake.
“An overland march will take too long.” Morradin sucked deeply on a short, sweet-smelling cigarillo, the tip glowing in the dusky gloom. “By the time we advance within striking distance they’ll have had plenty of time to fortify their inland defences. Plus we don’t have anywhere near enough artillery for a siege.”
After a week of fruitless pondering Sirus had called him to the roof of the dock-side gatehouse for a discussion. Any enjoyment of the marshal’s resentment at being summoned by someone he still considered an inferior was diminished somewhat by their shared dilemma. This meeting could have been conducted mentally but the marshal had developed an ability to shield his thoughts almost as well-honed as Sirus’s own. Whereas he used fear, Morradin’s mental walls were forged from anger. Sirus could feel it now, though outwardly the marshal seemed oddly affable as he puffed away on his cigarillo, stubby claws scratching at his spines in gloomy contemplation, betraying no indication of the constantly stoked rage within.
“So it has to be a sea-borne assault,” Sirus said. They shared a memorised image of the map detailing the port of Subarisk and the six island forts that guarded the coastal approaches.
“The fortifications were designed a century ago by the great military architect Zevaris Lek Akiv Torlak,” Morradin said. “Clearly a man who knew his business. We’d need at least a thousand troops to take each one, and they’ll be attacking under fire and in daylight, since the landing sites are only accessible with the morning tide.”
“We augment the attack with Reds,” Sirus said. “Assault them from the air and the sea at the same time.”
Morradin summoned another image, a pen-and-ink diagram of something that resembled a brick sculpture of a legless tortoise. “These aren’t ordinary fortifications, boy,” he said. “Domed roofs to deflect plunging shot, walls ten feet thick and a battery of twenty-pounders, which means they have enough range to provide fire support to the neighbouring forts. And even if we do manage to subdue the outer defences, we still have the harbour wall to contend with. As I said, Torlak knew his business.”
“Are you saying the place is impregnable?”
Morradin’s eyes narrowed behind the smoke as he took another deep drag. “Nowhere’s impregnable, boy,” he said, “if you’re prepared to spill enough blood. Your stealthy tricks won’t help us at Sairvek. This is my kind of battle. Something I think you already know, else why would you bring me here?”
Sirus stiffened a little as the barb struck home, finding himself irked by how the truth jabbed at his pride. Pride in slaughter, he thought, letting the fear rise to mask the self-disgust. On impulse he reached out to Morradin mentally, colouring the thought with mingled images of the White and Catheline’s red-black eyes. Any eavesdropping mind would hopefully mistake what followed for a shared terror of the consequences of failure.
Do you like this life, Marshal? he asked Morradin, watching his eyes narrow further as the emotionless question slipped through the torrent of fear.
You are full of tricks, aren’t you? Morradin returned, taking the cue to stoke his own fears along with a fresh bout of anger. You sure she can’t hear us?
No, but we’ll find out very soon if she can. Do you have an answer for me?
This life? Morradin let smoke seep from his nostrils before raising his hand and stubbing the cigarillo’s burning tip out on the palm. Can barely feel this, he commented. And by tomorrow it’ll have healed. Can’t deny the gifts we’ve been given.