‘You’re not a person at all,’ said the officer, ‘and Gurishal is sovereign territory of the Pentarchy, despite its occupation by the Shaggat heretics. We do not let enemies parade through our waters.’
‘You could help us,’ said Pazel.
‘Certainly,’ said the officer, ‘if I were a traitor, and in want of a swift execution.’
‘They
The soldiers laughed again, and even the officer smiled as he turned away. ‘No more,’ he said. ‘I have a battle to observe.’
‘The carnage below means nothing,’ said Ramachni.
The officer glanced at him again. ‘Nothing, eh? You jabbering freak. By dawn tomorrow, the balance of power in this world will have shifted for ever.’
‘Yes, I fear so,’ said Ramachni.
His unblinking eyes remained fixed on the Mzithrini commander. On the next hill, a spark leaped to sudden life, and with a
The officer’s response was commendable, Pazel had to admit. He did not kill anyone. Indeed he ordered no reprisals, although it was clear that his prisoners were somehow to blame. His only command was to attack the beacon-fire, to smother it, drown it, snuff it out. The task proved impossible, however. The ‘special chemicals’ were everything the man had claimed. The fire roared like a blast furnace; the soldiers could do nothing but watch. From out at sea it might have appeared that a new and tiny volcano had erupted in this quiet end of Serpent’s Head.
Kirishgan looked into the distance. ‘The White Fleet is setting sail,’ he said. ‘Already the vanguard is heading this way.’
‘They were prepared,’ muttered the officer, snapping open his telescope. As he studied the horizon, he ordered his men to break camp. ‘The Arqualis will see the fire too, and mark the spot. No sense waiting for them to come ashore and investigate. We’ll sleep tonight at Yellow Cliff.’ He turned to Ramachni. ‘Well, mage, you’ve proved you can light a match at fifty paces. Any other tricks at your disposal?’
Ramachni just showed his teeth.
‘Do you intend to fight eighty soldiers of the Pentarchy? For that is the only way we will give your prisoners up.’
‘I will not hold you to that boast,’ said Ramachni, ‘but I will not fight you either — yet.’
The officer shrugged, then gestured at the prisoners. ‘Get some food in their mouths, unless you want to carry these lunatics.’
Once more Pazel was amazed by his calm. The soldiers brought them meat and bread, and then marched them, at the centre of the battalion, down the hill and back into the maze of rocks and lava-flows and gullies. The soldiers walked in single file. Ramachni scrambled alongside the column, always safely out of reach.
Darkness came quickly. Hands still tied, the prisoners stumbled often on the rugged ground. They were marching generally uphill, but avoided peaks or vantage points of any kind, and Pazel soon lost all sense of where they were. He slogged on, footsore and anxious. He thought the commander had probably ordered Druffle’s killing in the same casual way with which he had called for his telescope. The only passion the man had shown was his contempt for Neda, whom he had looked ready to kill.
Hours passed. Pazel’s wrists and shoulders went from painful to numb. The moon rose but vanished at once into dense clouds. Occasionally, by the light of particularly powerful lava-bursts, Pazel saw that they had indeed climbed much higher into the volcanic foothills. He never once glimpsed the sea, but at some point late in the night Ramachni called out to them softly in the tongue of Arqual:
‘Do not give up! Magad’s forces spotted the White Fleet before darkness fell, as I hoped. They have ended their attack on Maisa’s ships, and are regrouping to face the new threat. Alas, most of their work was done. Many lives have been saved, but the Empress has lost her navy, or the bulk of it.’
‘What about the
One more weary hour, and they reached a stand of tall pines, and pitched camp. It could not have been more than an hour before dawn, but the darkness was nearly absolute, and the Mzithrinis did not so much as strike a match. The prisoners were chained together by the ankles, and the ankle-chains secured to the trees. Only then were their wrists untied. Pazel collapsed among his friends, and thought the pine needles beneath him the most perfect bed he had ever known. He heard the soldiers murmuring, something about the war’s approaching end, but before he could consider just what they meant he was asleep.
Pazel woke with a gasp. A dream, horrible and vague, a sense of being crushed beneath some monstrous weight. He sat up. There was daylight, but it was dim and strangely sidelong. In the trees, birds sang uncertainly. Was it morning or not?
The air was distinctly cold. His friends were waking, moving slowly in their chains. All the soldiers were on their feet. Something was very wrong. They were peering up at the sky, and even by the faint light Pazel could see that they were afraid. He stood, felt a cold claw in his stomach. The weight of the air. The pressure, the chill.
Neeps rose beside him, steadying himself on a tree. He gave Pazel a look of knowing dread. Beside them, Thasha’s father was fumbling on hands and knees. ‘What is it, boys, tell me!’ Not a prince or an admiral in this moment, just an old man in chains.
‘The Swarm is here,’ whispered Pazel. ‘I think it’s just above our heads.’
‘The what?’
Ramachni crept from the shadows. ‘Death has come between us and the mountain,’ he said, looking up. And Pazel realised it was true: he could no longer hear the volcano. Only birdsong — that, and the pines, which were bending and creaking, although there was no wind.
The others were all awake now and struggling to rise. Murmurs of terror were spreading among the troops. Pazel could see their breath, white and ragged in the unnatural cold.
Suddenly all the birds fell silent. The Mzithrinis were whispering prayers. Then came a curious sound: a soft thumping, as if small purses were raining down on them by the score. It lasted just seconds. Pazel stretched out a foot, felt the tiny body, and knew: the birds had fallen dead from the trees.
A soldier bolted. Seconds later dozens of others followed his example, their comrades cursing and shouting
For a terrible moment the prisoners were left alone, still shackled to the bending trees. Then a pair of soldiers came crashing out of the gloom, and one of them began to unlock their leg-irons. ‘You must go to the commander,’ he shouted. ‘This way, near the overlook. Run!’
Soldiers and captives blundered through the pines. Ahead the light was a little stronger — and the hideous underbelly of the Swarm more plain to see. It was combing the treetops, flowing north like a suspended tide. A black tide, pulsing, animate, a tide of worms and flesh.
‘Don’t look, Admiral!’ shouted Hercol, as he and Thasha supported Isiq by the arms.
The trees ended, and they stumbled out into a barren stretch of earth scarred with ashes and yellow, sulphurous stones. Pazel saw that they were on much higher ground than yesterday’s hill. Just ahead, the commander and some twenty of his men were crouching near the top of a cliff.
In their eyes, naked horror. The hideous mass stretched for miles in every direction, over land and sea. It had flowed around the volcanoes to the west of them. South and east Pazel could see no clear border, just a pale glow near the horizon to prove it did end, somewhere. Only the Swarm’s northern edge was plain to see, and this too was growing swiftly away from them.
‘Now do you believe us, Commander?’ asked Pazel.
The officer just stared up into the Swarm. He appeared to have lost the power of speech.
‘Gods above, it’s as big as the whole Rekere!’ said Darabik.
‘It has feasted on death since last we saw it,’ said Ramachni, ‘and it will soon do so again.’
They reached the cliff where the soldiers stood. Pazel looked north, in the direction the Swarm was growing: dark island, dark coast. The limping remains of Maisa’s forces. Ten or fifteen miles of empty sea-
And there it was: the Swarm’s prey.
Under vast clouds of cannon-smoke, the two greatest navies in the Northern world were blasting,
