Clay sank into an involuntary hunch as gun-fire erupted again, Loriabeth and Sigoral moving to his side and blazing away with their reloaded weapons. The White screamed under the lacerating barrage. Clay saw several impacts on its flesh, though no evidence it had suffered serious damage. It leapt high, wings scattering shards of rock into their faces as it sought the air, then jerked spasmodically as one of Kriz’s bombs struck it square in the chest. The White’s wings folded as it plunged back down, smoke rising from a glowing orange spot on its chest. It began to thrash, tail whipping and wings fluttering, issuing an enraged scream along with an intense stream of fire.
Kriz stepped to Clay’s side, her face still fixed with a determined rage. He watched as she switched the drum on her bomb-thrower, slotting a new bulkier one into place. “What is—?” he began then stepped back in alarm as she lowered the angle of her weapon and resumed fire.
The first bomb struck the White just below its neck. Instead of the explosion Clay expected it gave a dull, popping hiss as it blossomed into a ball of flaming sparks, so bright his eyes flooded with water and he had to look away. Kriz continued to fire, emptying all six bombs in the drum in as many seconds. When he looked again, squinting from behind shaded eyes, he saw the White writhing in a bath of pure flame. It gave a final screech before succumbing to the inferno, the tail, now scorched and mostly denuded of flesh, rising to coil like a somnolent snake before subsiding into the all-consuming heat.
“Well,” Loriabeth said, giving Kriz an appreciative hug. “I guess that’ll do it, hon.”
? ? ?
He found a pool of the White’s blood in the lee of a large boulder. It was shallow and part congealed, probably the fruit of one of Loriabeth’s bullets. In the gathering light of the false dawn the blood appeared almost black and deeply uninviting. Clay well remembered his only previous taste of raw White blood and had no desire to repeat the experience, but they had come here in search of answers. Sighing he dipped an empty vial into the pool and scooped up a portion of the blood, careful not to get any on his fingers. He washed the excess away with his canteen and consigned the vial to his wallet before moving to join the others.
They stood around the blackened patch of rock which marked the White’s passing. The fire unleashed by Kriz’s weapon was evidently the result of some clever chemical concoction for it had reduced the beast down to a collection of blackened bones. Its skull was a cracked and wasted thing, though enough of it remained to form an eye socket. Clay couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying to that empty hole.
What did you know? he wanted to ask it, his gaze lost in the dark recess of the skull. Did you have the same purpose as your friend up top?
“The Wittler Expedition powdered up the bones,” Loriabeth said, poking a toe into the ash.
“Then went crazy and killed each other,” Clay reminded her, finally managing to tear his eyes from the White’s skull. “Think they’re best left where they lay, cuz.”
“At least we know they’re not invincible,” Sigoral said. “If we’ve learned nothing else here, there’s that.”
“This one wasn’t whole,” Clay said, shifting his gaze to Kriz. She stood regarding the beast’s remains in silence, apparently lost in thought. He recalled the animal’s comparatively spindly appearance and the mottled nature of its hide. Also, fast as it had been it was still sluggish compared to the only other White he had met. “Something was wrong with it. Had it been full-grown and healthy, we’d likely be the ones all burnt up. Right?” he asked Kriz, raising his voice and pointing to the White’s remains, speaking slowly. “It . . . was . . . sick.”
She met his gaze and gave a brief nod, frowning as she struggled to formulate a response he would understand. “New . . .” she said, grimacing in annoyance then trying again. “New hatched.”
Clay’s mind immediately went to the opening in the cliff they had found the day before. Too regular to be natural and coughing up smoke. “Hatched,” he repeated, pointing at the ground. “Hatched down below, right?”
She nodded, offering an apologetic smile as she gestured to the remains. “This is . . . one. There are . . . many.”
“Well ain’t that just fine,” Loriabeth said, casting a wary gaze around.
“We go,” Kriz said, moving away to gather up her pack. Clay wanted to object, compel her to wait so they could finally trance. But he knew she was right. If there were more they couldn’t linger.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, donning his own pack and unslinging his carbine. “Lori, follow at a twenty-yard interval. Lieutenant, guard the rear if you please. Keep an eye on the sky. We push hard from here on. No sleep till we reach the shaft.”
? ? ?
They covered perhaps another five miles without incident, their progress inevitably slowed by the increasingly steep landscape. The hills had now become mountains and they were climbing rather than walking. Clay soon felt obliged to surrender the lead to Sigoral, who possessed a keener eye for the most efficient route up the successive slopes, each one more treacherous than the last. Almost all greenery had vanished now, save for the occasional patch of moss. Also the air grew noticeably colder with every passing mile, so that their breath soon began to steam in the chill.
“At least there’s no snow,” Sigoral observed during a brief rest stop. They were required to clamber from one rock to another, putting Clay in mind of children scaling a staircase. After a few hours his leg had begun to ache once more and his chest burned from exertion.
“Guess whoever made it wasn’t overly keen on being too authentic,” Clay replied, taking a long pull from his canteen. He resisted the urge to take another gulp. Their canteens were becoming increasingly light and he hadn’t seen another stream since leaving the ledge where the White met its end.
“Which once again raises the question of who made it and why.” The marine met Clay’s gaze for a second before his eyes flicked towards Kriz, who had perched herself on a boulder a few feet below. “Questions that require answers, Mr. Torcreek.”
“She says we’ll trance again at the shaft. Guessing we’ll get our answers then.”
“If we can trust she intends to keep her word to a bunch of savages.”
There was a bitterness to Sigoral’s voice that Clay didn’t like, and a certain resentment in his expression as he regarded Kriz. “Why don’t you just throw down your scrip, Lieutenant,” Clay said.
Sigoral frowned at him. “My scrip?”
“Old Blinds expression. Means say what you gotta say.”
The Corvantine inched closer, lowering his voice. “I catch her expression sometimes when she thinks we’re not looking. My old captain had a similar look in his eye when he surveyed his crew, but he didn’t bother to hide it. Contempt, Mr. Torcreek. That’s what she thinks of us. To her we are just useful primitives. Which raises the question of what happens when she’s done with us.”
“Or maybe she worries what we’ll do when we’re done with her.”
“A question we also should be pondering.”
Clay held the marine’s gaze for a second longer then looked away. “We’ll keep a keen watch on her,” he said, his tone short. “Best get moving,” he added, jerking his head at the slope ahead.