The temptation to provide a negative reply was strong. Morradin was not a man who improved upon prolonged acquaintance and if this situation had been in any way normal Sirus would have felt scant regret at the man’s death. But then, for all his faults, he and Morradin shared the same ignominy, and slaves could not revolt if they succumbed to disunity. He buried the rebellious notion by summoning a fresh wave of fear. Of all the various tricks he used to shield his mind, the Shaman’s final gift was proving the most effective.
Useful, he confirmed to the White. His mind is . . . unique. Feeling the White’s anger rise as it failed to grasp the unfamiliar concept Sirus went on quickly. He has strategies, knowledge that will bring victory.
The White hung in the air a moment longer, its wings maintaining a steady, majestic rhythm as its eyes glowed bright in the blank silhouette of its form. Victory, its voice repeated in Sirus’s mind, accompanying the word with an image, the same image Sirus had plucked from Morradin’s mind only moments before: an archipelago, the islands small clusters of green amid a vast blue sea, as if viewed from a great distance and considerable height. Sirus had never visited these islands but they were familiar to anyone who had ever viewed a map of the world. The Tyrell Islands, where the entire might of the Ironship Maritime Protectorate has gathered to oppose us.
Victory, the White repeated a final time before twisting its huge body about and flying away.
? ? ?
“Trying to break through the Protectorate fleet will be suicide.” Since his loss of status Morradin insisted on communicating verbally, and then only in Eutherian. He kept his thoughts under tight control, allowing only rare bursts of outright hatred to escape his shields, much of it directed at Sirus. “Those confounded repeating guns of theirs will cut us to pieces,” he went on. “And you can bet they’ve been busily manufacturing as many as possible since they lost their Arradsian holdings.”
In the days since his elevation to army commander Sirus had formed the host’s most astute minds into an ad hoc General Staff. His deduction that individuality was not overthrown by conversion had been proved correct. An unprejudiced search through the network of conjoined minds revealed some that shone like stars in a clouded sky. Consequently his staff was a surprisingly disparate group. A junior engineering professor from Morsvale Imperial College sat alongside an artillery sergeant who took evident satisfaction from his former general’s diminished circumstances. The flogging the man had received as a boy soldier was often at the forefront of his thoughts. Next to him sat a robust woman of middling years who had run a dock-side tavern for the previous two decades, amassing a considerable fortune in smuggling revenue in the process. At her side sat a scrawny Islander girl a little over fourteen years in age who had somehow nurtured a remarkable gift for mathematics despite an upbringing devoid of formal education. The final member of this group was the most surprising, a veteran tribal warrior of impressive stature who stood apart from the others with his gaze averted. His sparse garb revealed him to be a member of one of the jungle tribes, all sharing a name which Sirus approximated as meaning Forest Spear. Unlike his indigenous brethren this man exhibited a growing understanding of his new comrades, his thoughts displaying a remarkable facility for language and a keen-eyed perception. However, the fellow’s lifelong attachment to his tribal culture lingered like a dark cloud in his mind and each new insight was accompanied by a flare of guilt, as if enlightenment equated to blasphemy.
“The Blues can keep them bottled up in the harbour,” Sirus said, speaking in Eutherian as a sop to Morradin’s continued pique. It had been tempting to heap yet more humiliation on him, but he suspected it would prove counter-productive. He would need to succour all allies, however vile, if they were ever to escape this curious and terrible bondage. For now, however, the White’s desire for victory was a constant ache, dispelling all other considerations.
And the Reds can attack from the air, the artillery sergeant added, summoning a map of the islands from memory. Whilst our fleet lands the army on the beaches to the west.
“Our mighty fleet,” Morradin rasped, allowing his scorn to colour his thoughts, “is a rag-bag collection of merchant ships and barges. The Protectorate will be bound to have at least one flotilla patrolling the approaches to the islands. The Blues and Reds could see them off, to be sure, but the cost will be high and our White god is jealous of the lives of his fellow drakes. Even assuming we can break through their cordon, by the time it’s done the full weight of the Protectorate High Seas Fleet will be bearing down on us, all bristling with repeating cannon.”
A new thought crept into their collective, a faint image slipping from the mind of Forest Spear with reluctant insistence: a trio of Green drakes creeping through tall grass towards a solitary Green feasting on the carcass of some unfortunate animal. Sirus watched as the trio moved closer to the Green whereupon they stood up as one, the scaly hides falling away to reveal tribal warriors holding bows. They loosed their arrows in unison, the shafts sinking into the head of the Green, which flailed about for a time, casting flames which set the long grass ablaze.
Forest Spear let the image fade before sharing a final thought: To kill a thing, become that thing.
Sirus replayed the tribal’s memory several times before turning to Morradin once more. “Where would you expect the Protectorate to launch their next raid?”
III
THE GATHERING CALL
FIERY DESTRUCTION ENGULFS SANORAH DOCKS
Many Ships Burned and Sunk at Anchor
Riots Erupt in the Dockside
Identity of “Blessed Demon” Revealed by Our Correspondent
Last night saw our great city of Sanorah subject to a level of destruction not seen since the eruption of civil discord following the collapse of the Blood Bubble some eighty-six years ago. Whilst loyal readers of the Intelligencer will be familiar with this paper’s tireless dedication to honest reporting, the exact series of events which resulted in last night’s calamity have yet to be established and some of the confirmed facts are certain to arouse incredulity. We must, therefore, appeal to our readers’ trust that they are being presented with the unalloyed truth.