Or the lives we’ve taken, the children now being hunted in the hills by the monsters we serve. We leave nothing but ash and grief in our wake.
As armies have always done. And I never before had command of an army like this.
Except you don’t. I do.
Morradin’s anger rose again, this time coloured by some authentic heat, and he revealed elongated teeth in a grin. For now. She’ll tire of you soon enough. I know the type. Beauty and privilege were ever a toxic combination. And let’s not forget the fact that she’s completely fucking insane.
I know. Something which doesn’t bode well for any of us.
Morradin’s grin subsided into a glower. You ask if I like this life. Of course I don’t. I hate it. I was not born to be a slave.
Nor was anyone. But what if there was a way to free us. All of us?
Sirus felt a sour, despairing note creep into Morradin’s mind. To date I have tried to shoot myself six times, the marshal told him, playing out a series of memories. A room in Morsvale, Morradin staring at his Spoiled visage in the mirror, a pistol pressed to his temple. He pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Another memory, this time in the Barrier Isles, the cold metal of the pistol’s barrel sliding over his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth. Another pull of the trigger, another dry click from the hammer. Then again during the voyage to Feros, then again during the hill-country campaign . . .
I did load the pistol, Morradin went on as the final fruitless suicide attempt played out, this one only yesterday. Or rather I remember loading the pistol, but each time when I looked again it was empty. Somehow the White knew and changed my thoughts accordingly. If you ever try it, you’ll probably discover the same thing. So, how exactly do you intend to free us from a nightmare crafted by a being that knows our thoughts?
I don’t know yet, Sirus confessed. But I do know it can only happen if we act as one. Not just you and me, all of us.
There are Spoiled in this army who love their new lives. What for us is torment is paradise to them.
Unity of purpose is the only thing that will free us. We’ll have to ensure there are less of them to pollute our thoughts, and we have a very costly engagement to plan, do we not?
He withdrew his thoughts, speaking aloud after a silence that had lasted only a few seconds. “Your plan, Marshal?”
Morradin was wise enough to colour his mind with a sense of triumph before replying. Catheline, should she be listening, would expect no less. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you ever heard of a Protectorate naval hero named Racksmith?”
CHAPTER 22
Lizanne
It was only as the Blue began to dissipate in her veins that Clay chose to appear in the trance, leaving barely a few seconds for her to share the information she had obtained. The trance evaporated before she could be sure he had acquired the shared memory, or learn anything about his current circumstances.
Lizanne blinked into full consciousness, finding herself lying on the stone floor of a narrow cell. The walls were windowless rough-hewn rock and a heavy, iron-bracketed door barred the exit. The Spider was gone from her wrist and her feet were bare and numb with cold. Her captors had evidently been thorough enough to rob her of the product concealed in the heels of her boots.
She rose into a sitting position, rubbing her benumbed feet and replaying the unsuccessful mission in her head. Failure was not a sensation she enjoyed but rigorous and objective self-examination were a core part of her training. Too long playing the politician, she thought, grimacing as a vestige of feeling returned to her feet. And overconfidence, she admitted after further reflection. It’s unhealthy to believe one’s own legend.
There was a snicking sound from the door and she looked up to see a pair of dark, hostile eyes regarding her through a small slat. The eyes were female and it took Lizanne a moment to recognise the Blood-blessed woman she had come close to killing the night before.
“You were lucky,” the woman said, breaking a lengthy silence.
“No,” Lizanne said, returning the stare, face impassive. “I was better.”
The eyes narrowed and the slat slid shut with a loud clatter followed shortly after by the rattle of a lock and key. The door swung open on squealing hinges, revealing the Blood-blessed woman standing with a pistol in hand. Two burly pirates stood on either side of her, both bearing shotguns.
“Get up,” the woman said, gesturing with the pistol. “He wants to see you.”
Lizanne was surprised to find herself unmanacled as the woman led her along a cramped tunnel, the two shotgun-carrying guards at her back. They assume I’m no threat without product, she surmised, watching how the Varestian woman moved with an air of studied nonchalance. A foolish miscalculation.
Throughout the subsequent journey she identified three separate occasions when it would have been a relatively simple matter to subdue the woman, take her pistol and kill the two guards. But that would have left her isolated in an unfamiliar locale and, unless the woman had indulged the additional misjudgement of carrying product on her person, with no practical means of escaping this rock.
The tunnel eventually opened out into a broad platform set into the wall of a huge, wind-gusted chasm. Looking to her right, Lizanne saw that a complete section of the chasm was formed of a massive, smooth edifice and realised she was viewing the High Wall from the inside. Glancing down, she could see a placid lagoon and a wharf where half a dozen ships were moored. Despite her circumstances she couldn’t help but be impressed by the scale of this place and the ambition of its construction.
“Even your Protectorate couldn’t take it,” the woman said, reading Lizanne’s expression. “They tried once, you know. Or rather they hired a bunch’ve mercenary scum to try it. My great-grandfather saw them off then pursued them all around the world so that every pirate who dared challenge the Okanas clan was sent to serve the King of the Deep.” She stepped closer, looming over Lizanne. “So it is with all our enemies.”
Lizanne pursed her lips and nodded before placing a puzzled frown on her brow. “Except, these days you are your own enemy, are you not? Your cousin Arshav seems to think this place is his by right . . .”
The woman snarled and lashed out with her empty hand, which met only air as Lizanne ducked under it, delivered a hard punch to the woman’s solar plexus then stepped close to snare her other limb in an arm-lock. She forced the woman to her knees and twisted the pistol from her grip, pressing it to the back of her head. She looked up to see the two guards raising their shotguns, though not with the sense of urgency she expected.
“That’s very unwise,” the larger of the two advised, speaking in an unruffled tone that told Lizanne a great deal. The Blood-blessed woman wasn’t in charge of this escort, he was, and he didn’t care if Lizanne killed her.
She grunted and released the woman, tossing the pistol over the side of the platform. “A weapon only has value if you have the knowledge and intent to use it,” Lizanne told her, quoting a favourite line from one of her tutors.