The Third God (61 page)

The mirror signal Osidian had sent flickering towards either flank consisted of a single command. ‘Advance’. The dragons had lurched forward stirring red surf into life at their feet. Soon this had rolled over the cordon of Marula stretched across their front. Higher and higher it had boiled, tendrils smoking up to grip the blue morning. Soon, the red, rolling wall had risen to quench it altogether.

Carnelian leaned forward in his command chair, peering into the rolling cloud they were driving before them. He was sure he had seen something, but it was probably just another phantasm. He glimpsed three small dark solid things there on the ground. Marula labouring like ants through the sandstorm. It gave him stale satisfaction that this dust would be striking directly into the faces and towers of Jaspar’s host.

‘The signal, Master.’

Carnelian jumped, having almost forgotten his Lefthand was there. Instantly he looked to port, where the nearest dragon seemed a ship in a fog. A tiny glow like a marsh light upon its tower roof was moving from side to side. This was it. He gave the command for Earth-is-Strong to slow. As the cabin began to rock, he commanded her pipes lit. The dragon to starboard was keeping pace with her. Hopefully this was happening all the way down the line. To port, he saw the dragon there pulling ahead. The other five were surely advancing in line with it. He turned Earth-is-Strong an eighth to port. Slowly they began shearing in behind the six. Carnelian peered into the murk counting the shadows while at the same time looking out for Osidian. The horns and beak were the first to emerge, like a floating crucifixion. Then the massive bulk of Heart-of-Thunder with her tower solidified in the gloom.

‘An eighth to starboard.’

Earth-is-Strong responded, wheeling away from Heart-of-Thunder though still closing, until the two monsters were lumbering forward side by side. Carnelian glanced over to Heart-of-Thunder’s tower, but it was too murky to see Osidian. As they picked up speed Carnelian could make out ahead the six dividing into two cohorts with a gap between them. Carefully, he and Osidian guided their dragons into this gap until they were moving in line abreast with the six. Carnelian turned to look back, but could see nothing clearly. It was the intensifying reek of naphtha that confirmed that the rest of their dragons were feeding their lines in behind them. To starboard, the sandstorm was thinning as he expected. Soon, only the Marula churning the earth would sustain it along their original front. If the fog failed too soon, Jaspar might see there was no longer a battleline of dragons confronting him.

When his Lefthand made him aware Osidian was sending the second torch signal, Carnelian had this relayed to the three dragons on his starboard flank. He watched as the nearest advanced and imagined the other two doing the same, each further than its neighbour to form the right horn of Osidian’s hollow crescent. They were ready for battle.

Lightning flashed to right and left in the murk. A shrill screaming was muffled by the dust-cloud.

‘Dragonfire,’ Carnelian muttered.

A throaty brass voice groaned. He was already giving the predetermined command even as the Marula rushed back towards him, like ants fleeing a forest fire. ‘Ahead full.’

His Righthand had hardly finished muttering into his voice fork when Carnelian felt the change in Earth-is-Strong. The power of her sinews caused the tower to vibrate in a way that made him expect it to chime like a bell. Air wafted in against them. He felt dust scratching against his mask. Then all this was forgotten. A colonnade of shadows was solidifying ahead. For a moment Carnelian had the impression the fog would clear and he would see before him the Isle of Flies, or the edge of the Labyrinth. As each pillar grew more visible, his eyes widened behind his mask in disbelief. Dragons they were, but even more massive than the one he rode. A flash of flame seemed to oil the gold-sheathed curves of immense horns. A head that was a wedge of hide and bone weightier than the prow of a baran. The tower emerging from the gloom was four-tiered and had three flame-pipes pointing straight at him. He felt he was gazing down those barrels, waiting for fiery death to come searing out at him. An electric arc screamed into being so close he braced for the scorching of the fire upon his skin. He saw it was in reality a twin jet of flame pouring towards the oncoming monsters from Heart-of-Thunder.

‘Flame,’ he said.

He felt a rumble through his feet, a sighing almost too low to hear, a choke and splutter, then the screams vibrating their harmony against each other as liquid flame spat out. Its arches collided with Osidian’s. More were coming in from around the curve of the crescent. Glaring light that made him jerk up an arm to shield his eyes. Heat upon heat building along the leather of his upheld forearm, beginning to seep through the gold cheek of his mask. Head averted, teeth clenched, he squinted, watching the sun they were rolling before them. Its white heart coruscating, pulsating in time with the spluttering gurgle of naphtha pumping out below his feet. He sensed, more than saw, the massive Ichorian monster veering away from the fireball. He was mesmerized by the carved complex geometries of its tower, stark in the blinding light. His starboard companion dragon was slowing, being left behind. The sun before them was flickering, dulling as the flame arcs of his horn of the crescent swung away. A jet of burning naphtha splashed against the flank of the Ichorian dragon. Carnelian leaned on the arm of his chair to watch the fire pouring off it, stunned.

Then he felt his own pipes shut off. The fire in front of them vanished into black smoke that, as it thinned, allowed him to see that the way ahead seemed clear. He gaped, incredulous, as the fog ahead paled from violet to blue. Sky and land stretched empty to the horizon.

The plan coming unbidden to his mind issued a command through his voice. ‘Hard to starboard.’

As Earth-is-Strong wheeled, the rear of Jaspar’s dragon line came into view. Rumps moving away from him partially veiled by the dust fog. Incredulous, he gave another command. ‘Pipes to fire at will.’

The pipes beneath him began spitting long fiery jets feathered with black smoke that fell upon the dragons and their towers. As they thundered along behind that long line, raking it with fire, Carnelian rose to his feet and swayed over to grab hold of the screen and peer through. Osidian’s plan was working. Carnelian could think of nothing else. The fearsome destruction his fire was wreaking upon the defenceless monsters was confounding his disbelief. As their towers began to smoulder, the creatures reacted by trying to turn away from the heat. Order soon turned to chaos. Their screeching was like tearing bronze as their hide blistered and ruptured. Maddened by pain, blindly they swerved and, here and there, were punching into each other. Towers crashed together, or began to heel over.

He felt a tiny grip and saw Poppy had joined him, wanting to hold his hand as she surveyed the carnage. For a moment he watched its effect upon her face. Watched her eyes twitch as they darted here and there. Watched her grimace as they passed through a pall of smoke that carried a pungent shock of charring flesh and bone.

At last, miraculously, they saw the end of Jaspar’s dragon line coming into view. As Carnelian turned, he caught the incredulous glances of his Hands before they ducked their heads. He understood their consternation: they had seen a Master holding hands with a barbarian girl. He disengaged Poppy’s grip and asked her to go back to sit beside the homunculus. She made her way past his Righthand, and Carnelian returned to his chair.

As they approached the last enemy dragon, he slowed Earth-is-Strong and turned her so that her pipes could play their fire upon the creature and its tower. As they circled round its flank, other arcs of flame, from the dragons following him, fell on the same target. The bone tower blackened, charred and fiery mouths began opening into the decks within. He grimaced, imagining the crew’s fiery hell. Fire pouring down over its flanks and head, the enemy dragon screeched and tossed its head, yanking violently against the tyranny of its tower. With an audible crack its golden horn snapped, its tip flashing as it spun away upon its chain.

‘Look,’ cried Poppy.

Somehow she had crept back to the screen. The alarm on her face brought him quickly to her side. She pointed her thin arm through the screen. Peering at where she indicated, Carnelian could not at first see anything but smoke billows and dust rolling red over the land. But occasional ragged openings tore in the palls, through which Carnelian glimpsed masses, shapes that his mind resolved. Hornwalls, their circles squeezed out of shape by the pressure of attacks. He felt his blood draining to his feet. Unbelievable victory had made him forget their people on the ground. His first instinct was to take his dragons to their aid. Then at the edge of his vision he saw, to starboard, the vast movement of Jaspar’s dragons in flight, aflame. They were heading straight for Fern’s wing.

A thunderclap hurled Carnelian against the cabin wall. It was a moment before he could make sense of anything. A ragged hole had been torn in the starboard screen. Through it he saw an incandescent mass tumbling earthwards, streaming smoke. The enemy tower had exploded. Then he saw Poppy lying on the deck and surged forward, stooping to lift her. Stillness came upon him, deafness. She was dead, but then she stirred and the cacophony returned, though there was now a hissing in his ears. Poppy looked at him; she was only stunned. He gestured the homunculus to look after her, then threw himself into his command chair. He had his Lefthand flash a message to his dragons, commanding them to turn inwards towards the centre and herd Jaspar’s fleeing dragons into the open space between their aquar wings.

LIKE A TREE

A passion for permanence
Is nothing more than a fear of death.
Everything changes.
The wise man lets go.

(a Quyan fragment)

LURID FIRES SMOULDERED IN DEPRESSIONS IN THE GROUND. THE EARTH
was everywhere ploughed up. A drifting mist of smoke and dust tearing across his vision made Carnelian cough behind his mask. At least he had its filters. The dozen or so men he had brought with him were squinting, stumbling around him, wheezing, grimacing, their swords drooping from their hands. Ahead, through the miasma, Carnelian could make out a swathe running east to west that looked like a ridge of debris washed up by a tide of tar. Peering through the eyeslits of his mask, he could make out furtive movements suggesting something there was still alive. He regarded them with more horror than hope. How could anyone have survived that firestorm or the stampede of dragons enraged by their own flesh burning? Though he had managed to herd his half of Jaspar’s dragons away from Fern’s wing into the open space to the west, Osidian’s attack had driven the other half directly into Lily’s wing.

As Carnelian plodded closer each step was more reluctant than the last. He did not want to see, but had no choice. Lily might be there somewhere, still alive. Looking west along the curve of carnage, it was obvious none of her wing had escaped the dragon tidal wave. Even the mounted auxiliaries of their left flank had been overwhelmed. An arc of smoke and dust running from the south round to the north-west showed where Osidian was still carrying on a relentless pursuit. With its flashes of dragonfire, its black angry clouds, it seemed a receding thunderstorm. Carnelian could still feel its tremor in the earth, but there was another, deeper thunder. A slow, rhythmic pounding. He glanced round and saw Earth-is-Strong following him, churning up spiralling tatters of dust, sheets of smoke tearing on her horns, her tower a pale slab upon her back. Her brassman, hanging open, was dangling the rope ladder that danced in time with the monster’s tread. He had left his Hands in charge and told them to follow him at a distance, vigilant for any command he should send them by means of the mirrorman he had brought with him. Poppy was up there. He had had to forbid her to accompany him, putting her in the keeping of the homunculus, whom she had come to respect.

Behind the dragon, dust was fluttering off in russet banners from a ridge moving south-east towards their camp. No smoke there and it was closer to the ground, Fern’s wing riding down the Ichorian aquar who had broken even as Carnelian turned their burning dragons away from them. Perhaps it had been the explosion of the tower, perhaps the flames and smoke and smoulder burning all along their line that had made the Ichorians flee. Carnelian suppressed a fear that Fern and his Lepers and auxiliaries might yet find the Bloodguard more than a match for them. Before he had had a chance to make a choice, they had already sped too far away for him to intervene. So he had detached Earth-is-Strong from the pursuit and turned her towards Lily and the left wing to see what he could do there.

A whiff of burnt flesh made him return his attention to what lay ahead. How could anything in that black strand have survived?

As the miasma cleared, Carnelian saw he had reached the dead. His gaze flitted across the charred carpet of mangled men and aquar hoping not to see anything clearly, but so much blood and shit had soaked the earth it had become too wet to rise as dust. He looked back to where Earth-is-Strong loomed, wreathed in smoke. The rest of the world seemed insubstantial in comparison with the reality at his back. He turned slowly until the edge of the carnage came into view in the corner of his left eyeslit. Most likely, Lily would lie somewhere at the end of that forbidding curve. He began walking. He stopped. ‘Too easy,’ he muttered. He spied what seemed a rock rising from that dark surf. Pale it was, though blackened by the tide. Finding a dark path slicing away through the dead, he set off along it, hardly aware of his attendants lurching after him. He kept his head down, walking around the smoking boulders that were strewn all along the path. It intersected another. Lifting his head, he determined which seemed more likely to lead him to the rock. As he watched his feet, he became aware that the path he walked must be an arc branded into the earth by a scything flame-pipe. The organic shapes of the boulders were threatening to become limbs and torsos and heads. He pressed on, switching naphtha paths, his pale-leathered feet blackening.