“Since when do you command me, boy?” Braddon demanded in a low voice.
Clay looked over his shoulder as another volley of shots sounded from the direction of the Malynda. “We ain’t got time for . . .” he began, turning back to take his uncle’s fist in the face. As he landed flat on his back, tasting blood and blinking away stars, he at least had the satisfaction of seeing the infant Green scamper off into the undergrowth.
“This is my company,” Braddon said, advancing towards him, fist pulled back for another punch. He let out a pained grunt as Clay jack-knifed, lashing out with both boots to catch his uncle in the chest. Clay rolled to his feet and swung a punch into Braddon’s jaw, hard enough to set him back a step or two.
“Not any more,” Clay said, jabbing another blow at his uncle’s nose, drawing blood. “Not since you gave it up to wallow in the shit of your misery.” He lashed out again, catching Braddon on the chin, then followed up with a three-punch combination to the body that left the older man stooped and winded. “It’s my company now.” Another punch, blood flying from Braddon’s lips as he reeled away. “You ain’t nothing no more, old man!” A right hook to the side of the head, Braddon staggering, about to fall. “Aunt Freda would be ashamed . . .”
Braddon’s arm moved in a blur as Clay’s fist swung again, blocking the blow before taking hold of his arm. He delivered a punch of his own to Clay’s gut, doubling him over, before hoisting him up and tossing him into the bushes. Clay groaned, clutching at his aching midriff as he tried to fill his winded lungs. After a few ragged breaths he managed to roll over and began to push himself upright, then saw his uncle striding towards him with a drawn pistol.
Shit, thought Clay. Guess I finally made him mad enough to kill me.
Braddon brought the pistol level with his chest and fired, left hand fanning the hammer as he loosed off a rapid salvo. Clay heard something heavy hit the ground behind him and turned to see a fully grown aquatic Green lying dead a short distance away, its hide continuing to flicker as it twitched. His gaze swung back to his uncle, now calmly but swiftly slotting cartridges into his revolver. He met Clay’s eyes, sighed and stooped to offer him a hand.
“If you’re gonna hit a man,” he said. “Make sure you put him down with the first blow.”
Clay took the proffered hand and hauled himself upright, drawing his revolver and following as his uncle set off for the boat at a run. They found it wreathed in gunsmoke with several Green corpses littering the surrounding sand-bank. Kriz had already stoked the engine to full power and Skaggerhill sat at the tiller, beckoning urgently for them to get aboard. Clay fixed his gaze on the boat and accelerated into a sprint, refusing to look back as a chorus of enraged growls erupted behind. Preacher stood at the prow of the boat, rifle at his shoulder and apparently aimed at Clay’s head. He instinctively jerked to the side but Preacher had already fired, the bullet whipping past Clay’s ear like an angry hornet before finding its target.
Skaggerhill had drawn the Malynda a few yards away from the bank to get her clear of the sand, so they were obliged to wade through the last few yards. Preacher and Sigoral kept up a steady barrage as Kriz and Loriabeth helped haul Clay and Braddon aboard. Once they lay gasping on the deck Kriz engaged the propeller, setting the boat into forward motion.
“They get you?” Loriabeth asked, her gaze switching from Clay’s bloodied face to that of her father.
“Ran into a tree,” Clay replied, wiping blood from his nose and getting to his feet. He looked back at the island, finding it overrun with Greens, all howling a chorus of rage in their high-pitched, almost bird-like voices. A few slipped into the water in pursuit but soon fell behind thanks to the Malynda’s speed, aided by the reduced current, which seemed to be less swift in this stretch of river.
“Why ain’t they coming for us?” Braddon wondered, frowning in puzzlement. “Thought the White wants us dead.”
“I don’t think the White’s got hold of them right now,” Clay said, recalling the nest and the infant Greens. “They’re just defending the place where their young ’uns get hatched.”
He sat down, taking a canteen and tipping some of the contents over his face to wash away the rest of the blood. He had a lingering ache in his gut and a swelling below his eye but it looked like his uncle had spared him any permanent damage or lost teeth. Braddon, it turned out, hadn’t been so lucky. Clay watched him take the bench opposite and open his mouth wide, reaching inside to pluck out a tooth. He gave Clay a sour glance before tossing it over the side.
Clay winced at a sudden upsurge of pain in his gut. He extracted a vial of Green from his wallet and took a quarter sip before offering it to his uncle. “Won’t grow a new tooth, but it’ll take away the pain and heal the hole.”
Braddon shrugged and accepted the vial, taking a small sip before tipping the entire contents down his throat. He sat for a time, jaws clenched against the burn of the Green. “So . . . Captain,” he said eventually. “There’s still a great deal of country betwixt us and Krystaline Lake. You got any notion of what we’re gonna do when we get to the end of this river?”
Clay gave a humourless grin. “Was kinda hoping you did, Captain.”
Seen through the lens of a spy-glass the Cerath seemed small at first, Clay initially concluding they were of horse-like dimensions, albeit with a longer neck and more sturdy body and legs. It was only when one of them began grazing on the upper leaves of a tree that he gained a true impression of their size. “At least a third again bigger than the biggest horse I ever saw,” he said, handing the spy-glass back to his uncle. “You really think we can tame these beasts?”
“Tame them, no,” Braddon said. “But you can ride them.”
“You sure, Pa?” Loriabeth asked, shielding her eyes to view the Cerath herd. “Seem a little rambunctious to me.”
Clay surveyed the herd once more, seeing two of the larger beasts squaring up for a confrontation. They both pawed the ground with their fore-hooves, heads lowered as they bellowed out a challenge that could be heard even at this distance. After a lengthy period of bellowing and earth scraping the Cerath charged at each other, dust billowing across the plain as they met. They fought by rearing up and assailing one another with their hooves, reminding Clay of inexpert drunks fighting in a Blinds bar. The combat was brief if loud, one Cerath abruptly abandoning the fight to gallop away a short distance. Its opponent chased it for a short time then veered off, spending a few moments to call out in triumph before returning to the business of grazing on the long grass that seemed to dominate the southern plains.
“That’s the bull,” Braddon said. “He’s the one we want.”
The Lady Malynda had come to a grinding halt in the shallows of the upper Quilam two days before, forcing them to proceed on foot. They cut reeds to camouflage her, there being the faint possibility that a Spoiled might happen upon her in their absence. Hauling their gear and Kriz’s apparatus across the marsh to the plains had been both tedious and exhausting. The spongey, bug-infested land seemed to go on forever and their feet suffered from the constant damp. By the time the marsh gave way to firm grasslands Clay had to order an extended halt just to dry out their feet. Consequently, he had welcomed his uncle’s suggestion that they ride rather than walk to Krystaline Lake, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, it was an awfully long way.