Secrets of the Fire Sea

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


‘He ain’t firing,’ shouted the convict, his voice lost behind the barricade, lost against the hymn-like howling of the Pericurian soldiers, their fierce war songs given counterpoint by the crash of turret rifles against the brass tanks of compressed gas that powered their weapons.

‘I cannot!’ said Jethro, squatting sadly against his unfired rifle as though it was a crutch. ‘I cannot take a life in this way. Every death is my own.’

‘It will be your bloody own, alright,’ said the convict, sighting down his rifle. ‘The wet-snouts are coming forward a second time.’

‘Bayonets!’ yelled someone behind them. ‘Get your cutlery fixed.’

‘It is not his way,’ said Boxiron, watching the tide of fur, fang and claw storming down the street at them. The attackers were firing wildly, pitons smashing through the barricade and hurling the kneeling ranks of those freed from the prison off their feet with each impact.

‘He ain’t firing,’ repeated the convict, as if this was the only thing that mattered, his bravado fleeing now the defenders had made contact with the terrifying ranks of their massive enemy. The convict might have been a steamman himself, stuck in a loop with fear.

‘You seem more in control,’ Jethro said to his steamman friend, sounding surprised. ‘Before we voyaged here you would have slipped into a fury by now.’

Boxiron stood up, his right arm turning the massive hammer slowly in preparation. ‘This is my way. This is what I am for, but I will require your help.’

‘He ain’t firing,’ protested the convict by their side, fumbling for another charge to slip into his smoking breech.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Boxiron, laying his left hand upon the convict’s shoulder. ‘I am to claim his share.’ He looked down at Jethro. ‘It is time.’

‘He ain’t firing,’ the convict coughed at the huge ursine who had smashed through the barricade and pushed a bayonet through his ribs. Howling with victory, the giant invader shot the man once, the impact of the piton throwing the corpse off her blooded blade and clearing her turret rifle.

Jethro heard the clack of the Pericurian’s turret rifle drum as its barrel swept around towards the steamman and the ursine fed a fresh piton into her breech. ‘Forgive me,’ Jethro whispered as he seized the lever on the back of Boxiron’s spine and shoved it up to five. Top gear. Boxiron jolted straight as if he had been struck by lightning, rotating the hammer in an uppercut that lifted the ursine off her feet and sent her sailing into the bow window of a deserted shop. Too panicked to reload their rifles now that they were thrusting and cutting at the enemy through the crumbling barricade, a handful of the Jagonese convicts turned and ran, yelling in fear, the first to flee collapsing as one of the police militiamen shot him in the back with a pistol.

‘Coward!’ yelled Boxiron, striking forward to sink the flat of his hammer into the policeman’s gut. ‘This is how you lead!’ He stepped over the groaning officer’s body and vaulted the collapsing barrier, his massive weight clanking into the middle of the Pericurian assault, clearing a circle of broken bones with his warhammer. Shocked ursine stumbled back as this huge iron brute landed in their midst and lashed out at them. ‘Take only those that I leave!’

Jethro looked at his hand in horror as the Jagonese defenders vaulted the blockade and threw themselves down at the stalled, hesitating assault. The hand that had just turned the clock back on everything he had accomplished since rescuing his friend from the influence of the criminal flash mobs in the slums of the Jackelian capital. Jethro pushed through the barricade, just behind the melee, the only evidence of his steamman friend the brief flash of a hammerhead among the screams and shouts. The convicts pressed forward taking Boxiron at his word and impaling the wounded soldiers trying to crawl away along the ground.

‘Please,’ Jethro begged them. ‘Take them prisoner. Enough, they are wounded.’

‘Savages. Filthy, treacherous wet-snouts. Savage. Savage. Savage.’

The convicts pushed the ex-parson away as he tried to restrain them. Jethro Daunt stumbled to his knees. ‘This is wrong. Wrong.’

A fist as strong as steel gripped the back of Jethro’s neck, pulling him off his knees. It was one of the Pericurians. A fierce scarred grey-furred face stared into his own. The beast was lying on the ground with a sabre driven through her back – mortally wounded, no doubt, but still with enough strength left to crush him. Blood was streaming out of the corner of her mouth. ‘This – is – war!’

She dragged Jethro astride her, her arms pulling him down towards the bloody blade jutting out of her own dark leather armour.

‘For me – and – you!’

Jethro grunted in agony as he tried to resist his stomach’s inevitable inching descent onto the sabre’s tip. He was being pulled down to join her in death.


Hannah woke up to a darkness filled with spots of light. Was she blind, lying on the seabed with a dwindling reservoir of air, perhaps? No, she could hear the water, but it sounded like the gentle splash of a paddle on the surface. As she stirred, a hand reached out and covered her mouth. A hand covered with rough, bare skin, not ursine fur.

‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered the silhouette in the darkness. ‘There are Pericurian soldiers on these streets.’

Hannah realized she was staring up at the LED panels of a vault roof, malfunctioning by the look of them, dark except for a few flares of light dancing along what was left of the imitation sky. ‘Where am I?’

‘The Augustine Vault,’ said the shadow bending over her. Was that a police militiaman’s cloak she could see behind the figure? ‘The wet-snouts have taken most of the city now. We’re following the Augustine canal east to get to the Seething Round and the Horn of Jago.’

Hannah tried to move, but her shoulder felt as though someone had been using it for a pincushion and left the pins inside. Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. She was horizontal on the deck of a gondola, warm canal water soaking her clothes. Her diving suit had gone. The crew were using oars rather than poles to move the gondola forward, keeping their profile low down on the water.

‘Commodore,’ she whispered. ‘Are you here?’

‘Just you,’ said the silhouette, his cloak shifting behind him as he continued to paddle. ‘One of the tugmen found you and brought you inside Hermetica. We were expecting a wet-snout to interrogate. Got quite a surprise when we found a missing church girl.’

‘My friend,’ mumbled Hannah. ‘He was in the water with me. We had escaped from the Pericurian fleet.’

‘We just found you,’ repeated the shadowed figure. ‘There’s a lot of bodies off the coast now, our and theirs. Our divers got a few mines into their fleet and sent a couple of wet-snout boats down onto the coral. Hah.’

Was the commodore dead? She remembered seeing the torpedo go past, and Commodore Black would have been closer to the underwater blast than her. Another stupid, useless death served up to the altar of religious-motivated conflict? She had to get to the final piece of the god-formula! If she could just do that, she could put everything right. Hannah was distracted by screams in the distance carrying to the canal, followed by a burst of turret-rifle fire.

‘Poor fools,’ hissed the militiaman. ‘People hiding in their houses even after we told them to withdraw back to the Horn.’

‘Why is it so dark in here?’ Hannah asked quietly.

‘Wet-snouts have blown the power lines. Half the city is in darkness now, or running on battery light.’

But it was a darkness that protected the boat from the sentries set by the Pericurian army. Slowly but silently their gondola followed the course of the canal through the blacked-out vault, lit only by the malfunctioning ceiling and the occasional fire from a burning street in the distance. Under empty bridges and past deserted boulevards and squares. Hannah had never seen the city so empty. Even in the near-deserted quarters of Hermetica you could always hear the barking of a dog or smell the distant oven of some solitary resident still living in the home their family had occupied for generations. A lone holdout. There was always the chance of meeting a policeman on patrol, or the city workers out cropping bamboo to ensure it didn’t overrun a near-empty vault. But this. This wasn’t emptiness, this was desolation. A grim reminder of how Pericur would abandon the capital to the ursks and the ab-locks and the other monsters of the wilds once they had evicted the race of man. Hannah remembered the dusty, empty atmospheric station of the mining town at Worleyn where she, Nandi and the commodore had nearly died; icy winds blowing through cracked roof domes. Was this to be their fate now? She might have been better off staying a prisoner on the Pericurian fleet after all. At least she would have been left with her memories of Hermetica City, as it had been when she and Chalph played across its streets. When Alice Gray had been there to admonish her for missing lessons in the cathedral’s school.

Sliding through the darkness, not even daring to cough, Hannah squatted low as the gondola took her across what had once been the city she had known as home. Eventually they entered a tunnel carrying a bad reek, one of the sanitation passages that kept the canal waters moving and clear of refuse that fell in. When the channel became too narrow, the gondola men lifted their vessel out of the water and hauled it up onto one of the walkways, following the dark tunnel on foot to an opening in the next chamber across, before laying the craft down in the next canal and recommencing their voyage.

If seeing the empty war-ravaged vaults had come as a shock, Hannah found the sight of the familiar streets of the Seething Round even more painful, filled with barricades and terrified volunteers pointing rifles towards the increasingly loud explosions and weapons’ fire from the neighbouring vaults. Here at least there was light, and all pretence at stealth was abandoned. The chemical battery on the back of the gondola was given noisy life and the prow of their vessel tilted up as they sailed past wrecked canal boats and skips scuppered by their hundred to deny them to the invaders. There at last was the cathedral, but its magnificent stained-glass windows were dark and the bridge over the Grand Canal part-fortified and manned by what appeared to be anyone willing to carry a gun, pike or sabre.

Tying up the boat outside her home, the militiamen led Hannah up the steps into the Horn of Jago and here too was something she had never thought to see on Jago. Crowds. Corridors and passageways crammed with miserable-looking citizens, squatting and sitting, filling up every available space in the once-exclusive district that had belonged to the capital’s wealthy, its merchants and administrators and politicians. Now it was home to refugees and everyone who had heeded the call to abandon the vaults below. Almost the entire city was squeezed into its chambers and corridors. She stepped over squabbling children, their mothers shouting at them, and the shell-shocked huddles of the elderly that made up so much of their population. Here was the real face of war, in the grim hopelessness of lined old faces wondering if their few grandchildren would live to see tomorrow.

Hannah was home, but it had never looked so different.