“Spoiled,” Clay said, running a hand over the statue’s scaled features, feeling the stunted spines on its forehead. He was no scholar of the arts but there was something familiar about the way the stone had been worked, the sharp angles and blockiness of the statue putting him in mind of the hidden city near Krystaline Lake. But there were also subtle differences, a more curved line than he had seen before and, as a quick inspection of the statue’s base confirmed, it had been decorated with a markedly different form of writing. The characters adorning the statues in the hidden city had a flowing, almost organic quality whilst these were much more regular and dense, almost like words in a printed book.
“Miss Ethy might’ve been able to read it,” he murmured, running a hand over the inscription.
“Who?” Kriz asked.
“Friend of mine. She died. And I was too dumb to look at her note-books when I had the chance.”
“Oh.” She reached out to smooth a hand over the statue’s upper arm. “Finely worked. Whoever made this was very skilled. But there was nothing like it in my time.”
“Yeah, I guessed it didn’t come from your holy tree city.”
Clay straightened as something occurred to him. Where there’s one there’ll be more. He extracted a vial of Green from his wallet and drank a small amount, casting his gaze about at the revealed jungle. “There,” he said, pointing as his enhanced gaze picked out another crouching figure some twenty yards away. A brief inspection revealed it to be mostly identical to the first one, albeit with a greater level of damage. Further investigation revealed another two statues farther on, each spaced at what seemed to be precisely the same distance.
“And there’s another one,” Clay said, nodding to the next figure in what was clearly a long line of statues. “Looks like we got a trail to follow come the morning.”
They counted over two hundred statues by the time the trail ended in a broad clearing about three miles from where they had camped. They changed in form as the trail continued, the kneeling figures rising to a crouch, then standing, then with arms stretched out in front. Clay began to suspect they were in fact looking at a sequence depicting the same Spoiled captured at different stages in some kind of ritual. The final statue was the most damaged of all. The head was gone and half the figure’s vine-enmeshed torso had tumbled into dust long ago. One outstretched arm remained, however, the hand closed into a fist with a stunted finger extended.
The Artisan’s memory, he realised, following the direction of the pointed finger. They were in the same clearing from the memory Lizanne had shared with him, but instead of the statue pointing to a jagged outline above the tree-tops, it pointed only at empty sky. “Must’ve fallen to ruin since,” he murmured.
“What must have?” Kriz asked.
“A temple,” he said, starting forward. “This way . . .”
He staggered as a gust of wind swept down from above, raising enough dust to blind him whilst his ears were assailed by the roar of an enraged drake. A shudder ran through the ground as a large Black descended directly to his front, wings spread wide and mouth open. More shudders followed in quick succession, Clay whirling to see two more Blacks landing to their rear.
“The crystal,” Clay said and Kriz immediately reached into her pocket. The Black to their front let out a squawk of alarm at this, lowering itself into a crouch, smoke rising from its nostrils.
“Hey!” Clay raised both arms, presenting his empty hands to the Black, hoping to buy time for Kriz to activate the crystal. “We’re friends! See, no weapons! And we brought a gift.”
He unshouldered his pack, swiftly undoing the ties and extracting what was inside. “Peace offering,” he said, setting the egg down in front of the Black. Its aggressive posture didn’t change, though it did lower its gaze a fraction to take in the sight of the egg. Letting out a suspicious grunt, the Black dipped its head to sniff the egg, huffing in what Clay took for recognition. “Young ’un needs a new home,” he said. “Brung him a long way to find it.”
The Black’s eyes narrowed, a low, guttural rumble sounding from its throat as it enclosed the egg in its claw, dragging it back as it hissed in warning. Clay watched as the beast’s gaze tracked from him to Kriz where it lingered, narrowed further then flared into a deep angry recognition. Shit! he thought, turning and dragging Kriz into a protective huddle as the Black roared and unleashed its flames.
CHAPTER 29
Lizanne
“You were right,” Lizanne told Captain Trumane. “Mrs. Griffan is not suited to service aboard your ship.”
Trumane glanced to where Sofiya was fussing over some of the children, her face showing a rare animation and joy. “The mission was a success,” he said. “I believe she acquitted herself well.”
“She should have passed on my order to abort,” Lizanne insisted. “We were compromised.”
“War-time operations are not intelligence missions, Miss Lethridge.” Trumane’s tone was mild but his gaze betrayed a twitch of resentment she realised came from her use of the word “order.” “They cannot be abandoned due to mere compromise,” Trumane went on. “War is an exercise in the management and acceptance of risk. If Mrs. Griffan had passed on your order I may well have discounted it in any case, considering the advantage we stood to gain. A sea-borne invasion of the Red Tides is now impossible, at least for some considerable time. In short, the risk was worth it.”
Is it pride, Lizanne wondered, trying not to let her burgeoning anger show on her face, that makes me dislike this man so? Do I hunger for power? Like Countess Sefka, or the Electress.
Despite her resentment she knew there was merit in his judgement. It was two days since the Viable Opportunity had returned from its mission, during which time Tekela and Lizanne had made a brief reconnaissance flight. They flew in daylight with Morva and a volunteer from the militia, both armed with mini-Growlers. They kept a wary eye on the surrounding sky as the aerostat drew close enough to Subarisk to confirm it mostly ruined by flooding and the White’s fleet wrecked, save for a few vessels seen floating in the harbour. More disturbingly, there was no sign of any drakes or, as they drifted lower, no Spoiled either.
Lizanne had decided to risk an inland flight, having Morva stand by to ignite the blood-burner as they flew north. The tail end of the White’s army came into view some ten miles beyond the city, the huge host raising a pall of brownish dust as it snaked away across the landscape. The sight of dark-winged specks flying above the horde was enough to convince Lizanne to turn back. The conclusion was obvious: The White had abandoned Subarisk and commenced an overland march. Its eventual destination was not hard to divine. They had won victory and precious time, but this war was very far from over.
“Ah,” Trumane said, turning towards her father’s workshop as a sudden upsurge in noise rose from beneath the awning. “I believe we are about to be treated to an unveiling.”
The work-force had been granted the afternoon off to witness this event, a reward for exceeding their production targets and also a pragmatic measure intended to obviate the exhaustion of many. The patch of bare ground that lay in front of the workshop had been converted into a park of sorts complete with benches and gravel paths. Some former gardeners from Lossermark had even planted flower-beds, though it would be some weeks before they blossomed. It was mainly used as a playground, carpenters and metal-workers having used their infrequent spare time to construct swings and a climbing frame for the children. Today the park was crowded with off-duty workers, mostly clad in their overalls, though Lizanne saw some who had taken the time to change into finer garb somehow salvaged from their previous lives. Despite the tiredness evident on most faces, there was a distinct sense of celebration in the air, as if the unveiling of the professor’s latest marvel might even be a cause for optimism.