Grapples were hurled to lash the vessels together and gang-planks lowered to bridge the gap whereupon two hundred Spoiled emerged from hiding to rush across and seize the prize. The fighting was usually fierce but short-lived, and the complement of sailors to man the White’s growing fleet grew with every capture. Sirus ensured that no more Blood-blessed were found alive. He concealed his purpose by personally hunting down the Blood-blessed on each vessel and masking the swift death he gave them with a burst of fear. As yet, the White didn’t appear to have detected his merciful subterfuge though the members of Sirus’s ad hoc staff proved more perceptive.
We can’t fire the blood-burners without Blood-blessed, Veilmist, the mathematical girl-genius pointed out. Her thoughts tended to lack all but the most subtle emotion, possessing a singularity of focus that Sirus suspected had been there long before her conversion. He had convened a council of war in the Harbinger’s ward-room. Although remade into something other than human, they were still compelled by the strictures of human custom, including a ritual obeisance to hierarchy.
“The auxiliary engines will suffice,” Sirus replied, speaking aloud in Eutherian as had become his habit at these gatherings. “Your calculations please. And talk, don’t think.”
Veilmist replied in Varsal, her lilting Island accent counterpointed by the precision with which she enunciated each word. “In the event of a direct assault and given the strength of the Protectorate garrison in Feros we can expect a casualty rate of forty to forty-five percent. Assuming the attack is successful, however, and factoring in the likely death toll amongst the civilian population, the overall strength of the Army will at least double.”
“And assuming we can fight our way past the naval cordon,” Morradin said. “Four ships won’t be enough.” The marshal’s simmering rage at his loss of status hadn’t abated. But, like all of them, the White’s need for victory left no room for dissent. Also, Sirus could sense the man’s innate inability to resist a military challenge.
“We won’t be fighting our way in,” Sirus said. “At least not at first. And, the casualty estimate is too high to justify a massed assault on the harbour.”
He had a map of the Tyrell Islands spread out on the ward-room table. It was another sop to ritual since they all shared the same visual memory. “Feros sits at the end of an isthmus on the southern coast of Crowsloft Island,” he said, pointing to the city’s location. “And no inland fortifications to guard against an overland assault.”
“Because they’ve never had to worry about it,” Morradin replied. “There aren’t any viable landing sites on the isthmus. But there is this.” He jabbed a stubby finger at a small inlet to the west of Feros. “The Corvantine Imperial General Staff had a plan for an invasion of the Tyrell Islands, to be undertaken following the conquest of Ironship’s Arradsian Holdings. We identified this bay as the optimum landing point. The beach is usually too broad for a successful attack, being overlooked by cliffs all around, but it’s a different matter during a three-moon tide. What was a muddy mile-long tract enclosed by impassable cliffs becomes a short beach fringed by easily climbed slopes.”
“The next three-moon tide is in eighteen days,” Veilmist said.
“An achievable time-scale,” Sirus said, tapping a finger to Morradin’s proposed landing site. “We land the main force here and Feros is no more than a six-mile march away. Night will provide additional cover as well as confusing the defenders, since they don’t enjoy our advantages in the dark.”
“The General Staff also intended a simultaneous attack on the harbour,” Morradin said. “Considered vital to disrupt the enemy defences and divide their forces.” He shot a brief, malicious glance at Forest Spear. “Send the savages. They’re nothing if not expendable.”
Sirus was obliged to still Forest Spear’s upsurge of anger with an implacable pulse of command, freezing the tribal in place as his hand flew to the knife on his belt. Only this man could breed disunity in an army of joined minds, Sirus thought, turning a hard gaze on Morradin.
“Kill him,” Avris, the former artillery sergeant said. The memory of his flogging was a permanent dark stain on the man’s memories and this was not the first time he had made this suggestion.
“He weakens us, darling,” Katrya said, moving to Sirus’s side and smiling sweetly in Morradin’s direction. “Why do you keep him?”
“Because he remains useful,” Sirus replied simply, sending out another thought pulse that forbade further discussion on the subject. He returned his attention to the map, mind churning over the plan, drawing pertinent detail from the wealth of knowledge acquired over recent months. He could see plenty of risks, for war was always risky, but no obvious flaws. It was tempting to send Morradin to command the attack on the port itself, squeeze some more use from him whilst hopefully orchestrating his death in the process. But there was another factor to consider, one he was careful to conceal.
“Marshal Morradin will command the landing force,” he said. “I will lead the assault on Feros.”
? ? ?
Katrya’s anger was fierce, making her thrash and scratch at him as they coiled together in the captain’s cabin on the Harbinger. Had he still possessed a fully human form her attentions might well have been fatal; as it was they were merely painful, if irresistible.
“Do you hate me?” she asked as her passion finally began to subside, her tongue licking along the cut she had left on his scaled brow.
“Of course not,” he told her, sharing a memory of their time together in the Morsvale sewers. For all the terror of those days he still preferred them to this enslavement.
So you want it to end? she persisted, returning to thought-speech. You think death will bring freedom?
The White wants its victory. The attack on the harbour has a greater chance of success if I lead it. It was a carefully constructed lie, possessing enough truth for plausibility but shot through with sufficient uncertainty to conceal the deception. At least, he had hoped so. Katrya, however, was not so easily fooled.
It’s her! Her thoughts lashed at him and her steel-hard nails added another cut to his face as she tore herself free of the bed. Isn’t it? You think you’ll find her there!
He saw no point in denial. Simply sitting up to regard her in silence as the blood coursed down his face.
“She’s dead!” Katrya hissed at him, elongated teeth gleaming in the darkness. “The little bitch is dead!”