“Where might we be going?” the musician asked, hurrying to catch up as she strode from the palace grounds.
“To the docks where we will take a ship to Feros,” she replied. “My father has an old pianola that hasn’t been played in years. And I believe I will require an accomplished musician to complete this mission.”
CHAPTER 50
Sirus
Katarias roared as Feros appeared through the drifting clouds below, an exultant blast of anticipation echoed by the huge flock of Reds filling the sky on either side. Sirus could see the waves roiling against the harbour wall in a white froth, driven by the three moons that provided ample light with which to view the city. It seemed so small at this height, just a cluster of pale blocks and dark lines fringing the wide bowl-shaped bay that formed the harbour. She must be sleeping somewhere down there, he thought as his gaze tracked to the bright wakes of the main assault force to the south. And I have come to rouse her to a nightmare.
Katarias angled his wings and began to slowly circle the isthmus below, the other Reds all following his lead. They maintained their current altitude lest any vigilant Protectorate sentry spot their approach, although Sirus thought it unlikely. Who would think to seek a threat from above this far north?
Transporting so many to within flying range of the Tyrell Islands had been a difficult and costly task. The animals clearly detested having to perch on barges and ships in such close proximity to so many Spoiled. During the voyage the White’s army had lost almost a hundred soldiers to sudden lunging bites or tail-strikes as drakes, both Red and Green, vented their irritation. The fleet moved in tight formation to lessen the chance of detection, their four captured Protectorate frigates in front followed by the civilian craft captured in Morsvale, each one towing at least two barges laden with Spoiled or drakes. Blues proceeded ahead of them in a broad mass covering several miles of ocean, reporting any sightings of enemy craft to the White. It had made a nest for itself atop the bridge of the Harbinger and seemed to take little interest in the intense activity all around, instead spending the voyage fussing over its clutch of juveniles.
Sirus was struck by how large the infant Whites had grown in a relatively short time, each one now possessing similar bulk to a full-grown Green. They had also begun to fly with greater regularity and soon adopted a favourite sport of swooping low over the fleet and selecting a meal at random from the close-packed ranks of Spoiled. Two or three of the beasts would descend on the unfortunate and pluck them from the deck of a barge or ship, sometimes tearing their prey apart in mid air and tossing the pieces to each other in an obscene game of catch. On other occasions they preferred to carry the victim back to their nest, stripping the flesh from the carcass in a frenzy before dismembering the skeleton. They would then weld the bones into the growing stack in the centre of their nest, coughing up bile to cement the remains in place. Sirus found he had to give full vent to his fear whenever this happened, lest his simmering rage boil high enough to draw the White’s gaze. Somehow the whole ghastly ritual was made worse by the absence of screams. The victim and onlooking Spoiled alike remained completely silent throughout every ordeal.
They had encountered two Protectorate vessels during the journey, one a small coal-burning patrol boat easily overwhelmed by the Blues. The second had been a much more formidable enemy, an old but fearsomely armed cruiser. The White communicated the sighting to Sirus, who immediately ordered the four frigates to increase speed, sending one on a north-westerly course and another north-east to catch the lumbering vessel in the event she tried to escape. The ship, named as the IPV Rate of Return by the elegant Mandinorian script embossed on her hull, obligingly hove to and reduced speed upon sighting the approach of two friendly vessels. However, some keen pair of eyes in her crow’s nest evidently spotted the White Drake perched atop the Harbinger. Sirens sounded the length of the cruiser and a full complement of heavy guns sprang to life, her paddles churning the sea white as she attempted to gain speed. Pity, Sirus thought as plummeting shells raised tall spires of water all around. It would have been nice to capture her.
Either due to hasty gunnery or sheer luck, none of the cruiser’s shells found a target. The Blues, suddenly loosed from their restraint by a command from the White, surged from the sea surrounding the Rate of Return, bathing her in flame from bow to stern. The old ship continued to fight on despite terrible damage, the repeating guns on her upper works claiming four Blues before she was finally borne under by sheer weight of drake flesh, leaving a slick of mingled blood and oil to mark her passing. Night followed soon after and they enjoyed an uninterrupted approach to the southern shore of Crowsloft Island.
Another Red swooped closer to Katarias as they continued to circle, Sirus seeing Katrya waving atop its back. He had wanted to leave her behind in deference to her condition but she reacted to the notion with violent defiance, keen as ever to do the White’s bidding. He had come to realise that her attitude was far from unique in the army. With every passing day this host of remade souls grew more willing to accept its lot. Some, especially the Islanders, continued to rage inwardly at their enslavement but the mood amongst the less recently converted was gradually subsiding into one of unreasoning loyalty. There were even some who seemed to rejoice in their inhuman state, mainly those of dull intellect or inherent cruelty.
Change and growth, Sirus remembered his father saying in one of his lectures to archaeology students at the Morsvale Museum. The two constants in the history of human civilisation. As our circumstances change, so do we, and we always prosper in the changing.
As Katarias swept round for the second time Sirus lowered his gaze to gauge the progress of the fleet. He could see the wakes of the frigates separating as they came within a mile of the bay where Morradin had promised a successful landing. Sirus sent the marshal a questioning thought pulse, receiving one of fierce anticipation in return.
The tide is high and not a corporate swine in sight, Morradin reported. The Greens will go ashore first. They’ll be raising an appropriate level of havoc in the outskirts of Feros in the space of a quarter hour. I’ll have the whole army off and advancing towards the isthmus in two hours.
No killing once the Protectorate forces have been dealt with, Sirus reminded him. We’ll need to make good our losses.