The Legion of Flame (The Draconis Memoria #2)

“At least we have something like a decent artillery train now,” Arberus commented as the army assembled itself for departure. In addition to Jarkiv and his somewhat grandiosely titled Free Brigade, the fortified town had yielded a dozen cannon and substantial stocks of ammunition. Fortunately, the garrison’s gunners had been amongst the most enthusiastic mutineers, meaning each gun was fully crewed by experienced hands.

“It won’t be enough,” Lizanne said. “One regiment of Household troops will put this lot to flight in a matter of minutes.”

“That supposes Countess Sefka will be able to spare a regiment. Our new recruits brought news of rioting in Corvus, more mutinies in the northern garrison towns. Korian is right, we’ll never have a better opportunity.”

Lizanne watched him survey his army, seeing the zealous gleam in his eye. She knew her disdain was unfair. Arberus had been steeped in revolutionary dogma since birth and this unexpected turn in events could be said to be the culmination of his life. Even so, the swiftness with which he appeared to have abandoned their mission stung more than she cared to admit.

“Come with me tonight and we’ll take the Tinkerer,” she said. “We’ll be far away by morning and safely aboard an Ironship vessel within ten days. Leave these fools to their mad endeavour.”

He didn’t look at her, though she took a crumb of comfort from seeing his zealousness subside into a regretful frown. “I can’t,” he said. “Not now. Not when we’re so close.”

“Is this my fault?” she wondered aloud, addressing herself more than him. “If I had been . . . less myself would you be so quick to throw away what we shared?”

“Did we ever really share more than a purpose?” he enquired, turning to her with a sad smile. “Was I ever more than a useful convenience?”

Lizanne began to answer then stopped, appalled to find the words halted by a catch in her throat. This thing has weakened me, she decided, turning away. And I can no longer afford weakness.

“I see.” Arberus swallowed a sigh and extended a hand to point out the slight form of Tinkerer amongst the busy throng. The artificer stood directing Anatol and his brace of guards as they placed a collection of tubular devices in the back of a wagon.

“The Electress let me put him to use,” Arberus said. “There’s a foundry here, I thought he might be able to produce a thumper or a growler if I gave him the designs. He said it was impossible in the time available, but he did come up with another less complex device that might prove equally effective.”

Lizanne straightened a little at his tone and the note of intent it held. She paused to swallow away the catch in her throat, straightening her back and draining all emotion from her response. “So, I assume you wouldn’t want him to go suddenly missing.”

“Or you. We need you both. We have a chance here to do something great . . .”

“Spare me. You know what we face, you saw it with your own eyes at Carvenport. This trivia”—she waved a hand at the untidy ranks of the sluggishly assembling regiments—“is a distraction.”

“Sefka and the Blood Imperial have no interest in anything beyond their own power,” Arberus countered. “An empire freed from the corruption and incompetence of the ruling nobility will be far better placed to resist the White’s onslaught.”

“Such inventive rationalisation does you credit, General.” Lizanne turned her mare about and trotted away, knowing she would pitch her tent far from his come the evening and that he would make no effort to seek her out.

? ? ?

“Beautiful,” Makario said as Hyran fell silent, clasping his hands together and a small tear rising in his eye. “Simply beautiful.”

The youth flushed a little and gave a modest shrug. “Just an old choral piece Ma and Pa taught me,” he said. “Music was a big part of their faith. Said it gave voice to the soul.”

“So you know others?”

“A dozen or so. There are more, but the Cadre burned all the holy books, so I s’pose they’re gone for good.”

“Yet another Imperial crime to be punished in full when we get to Corvus.” Makario sighed and stepped closer to Hyran, placing a hand on his chest and another on the small of his back to ease him into a more upright pose. “Posture is important, my boy. Raise your chin and let the words soar. Contrary to popular belief the voice comes from the stomach, not the throat.”

“If you’re quite finished,” Lizanne said, impatience adding an edge to her tone. The army had made camp for the night and she had sat watching Makario tutor Hyran in the finer points of vocal performance for nearly an hour now. The musician had remained close to her since the escape, pitching his tent beside hers every night and rarely straying more than a few yards from her side. He had escaped Arberus’s training regimen by appointing himself Assistant to Miss Blood, though his duties in that regard seemed minimal to Lizanne’s eyes.

Miss Blood. The name had re-emerged during their time in Hervus and soon spread throughout the ranks of the army. She suspected Arberus might well have had a hand in resurrecting a title she thought left behind in Feros. Perhaps he sought to cement her position in this unwise expedition whilst also publicising the fact that the army boasted at least one Blood-blessed in its ranks.

“We have work to do,” she told Hyran, rising and plucking a vial from the Spider.

“Oh can’t you leave him be?” Makario implored, striking a somewhat theatrical pose as he placed himself protectively between her and Hyran. “I seek to educate him in the arts of life, whilst all you do is mire him in the arts of death.”

“You’ve been waiting all day to say that, haven’t you?” Lizanne enquired.

Makario gave a sullen frown and slouched aside. “Actually, I only thought of it a moment ago.”

“Black,” Lizanne said, tossing the vial to Hyran. “Just a drop. We need to husband our supplies.”

So far these nightly training sessions had done little to bolster her faith in the youth’s abilities. His lack of experience and limited exposure to product made him a slow student, barely capable of more than a first-year girl at the Academy. He tended to exhaust any Green he imbibed in a matter of seconds, proving repeatedly incapable of suppressing the exhilaration that accompanied the rush of vitality. His use of Red was clumsy to the point of danger, not least to himself as evidenced by the long scorch-mark on the sleeve of his jacket. However, he did at least display some facility for Black, managing to exert an impressive level of control over the objects he grasped, though his choices were a trifle obvious.

“Smaller is often better,” she told him as he slammed a large boulder against the trunk of a near by oak. The great tree shuddered at the impact, shedding leaves that cascaded around them in a green rain. The boulder itself shattered on impact, sending stone shards in all directions, one of which found the back of Makario’s hand.

“Have a care, if you please!” he huffed, mopping at the bleeding scratch with a kerchief. “These”—he raised his hands and twiddled his fingers—“are my fortune, after all.”

Lizanne ignored him and pointed to a small stone lying close by. “Try that one,” she said. “See if you can set it spinning before you throw it. It’ll fly straighter.”