It proved no idle boast. The first shell impacted directly atop the battlements some fifty yards to the left of where the Blood Cadre had assembled. Some were killed outright by the blast and the shrapnel, others reacted with impressive swiftness, leaping clear or sprinting in the opposite direction with Green-facilitated strength. It wasn’t enough to save them. The next four shells landed in quick succession, making the ground quake with every impact. The section of wall where the Blood Cadre had gathered dissolved into a storm of flame and shattered stonework. The bombardment continued for five minutes, the fall of shells pausing a few times as the gunners adjusted their aim so as to carve a breach in the wall a hundred feet across.
Hearing a growing, angry murmur at her back, Lizanne turned to see the vanguard of the People’s Army emerging from the streets fringing the fields. They came streaming over the green expanse, convicts from Scorazin, turncoat conscripts and thousands of rebel townsfolk all making for the smoking breach in the wall with no Blood Cadre to oppose their charge.
“I consider your contract fulfilled,” Lizanne told the Griffans. “Feel free to return to the ship, though I would advise hiding out for a few hours first.”
She hefted her revolver and glanced at the five rebel Blood-blessed who stood regarding the ruined wall with equal parts delight and anticipation. “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 46
Clay
A strange, guttural gasp rose from the crowd as they moved closer, jostling each other in their desire to gawp at the crystal rose crafted by the impossible powers of a little girl. The initial awe had given way to a collective hunger, as if the mere sight of something so incredible had transformed them all into children desperate to get their hands on a new toy.
“Stop this!” The voice cut through the crowd’s rising tumult like a knife. It was Devos Zarhi, standing apart from the encroaching throng, her arms raised and eyes lit with a manic light that put Clay in mind of Preacher in one of his rare talkative moments. “This . . .” the thin woman hissed, lowering her arms so both hands were pointed blade-like at the gently rotating crystal rose. “This vile corruption of the Benefactors’ gifts offends all who hold to the divine. Do not imagine they are blind to this!” She turned to the crowd, voice raised in shrill conviction. “Do not delude yourselves they will allow such interference in their design to go unpunished! Do not—”
“Oh, cease your prattle you ignorant fool!” It was Zembi, his face full of an anger that gave the lie to his studied mildness from only a few moments before. He had moved to place himself between Krizelle and Zarhi. Whilst not quite so imposing a figure as Veros Harzeh, he was still a substantially built man and his hunched bearing carried an obvious warning. “This girl is not a corruption of anything,” Zembi went on, addressing the crowd now. “Her gifts are innate, revealed only through blind chance. No one made her this way. My daughter is as much a gift as the crystals . . .”
“She is not your daughter,” Zarhi cut in, voice lowered now to a sibilant hiss. “You stole her.”
The rose stopped spinning, trembled for a second then fell to the floor. “Father?” Krizelle asked, moving to tug at Zembi’s robes. “What does she mean?”
“Oh yes,” Zarhi said, her features taking on a sympathetic grimace that didn’t alter the animosity still shining in her eyes. “Didn’t you know, little one? You share no blood with this man.”
“Liar!” Krizelle said, tears blooming in her eyes as she lunged towards the thin woman. Zembi caught Krizelle in a tight embrace, lifting her and carrying her away.
“This man stole you!” Zarhi called out. “Your real parents ache for your return . . .”
“LIAR!”
Clay winced at the thunder-clap sensation of a large amount of Black being released at once. Devos Zarhi was blasted off her feet like a twig caught in a gale. She slammed into the crowd, the crack of breaking bones mingling with a chorus of panicked shouting. The remaining throng retreated, some more resilient souls coalescing to resist the fleeing tide whilst others went to aid the pile of groaning bodies surrounding the crumpled form of Devos Zarhi.
Kriz froze the memory as Zembi ran for the exit, Assembly members fleeing from his path, the little girl in his arms staring over his shoulder at the carnage she had caused.
“I didn’t kill her,” Kriz said, moving to peer at the twisted and inert body of Devos Zarhi. “Though I’m told she never walked properly again. To my shame I find this does not trouble my conscience.”
“Was it true?” Clay asked. “About him stealing you?”
“Adopted is more accurate, albeit an adoption ordered by the Assembly. I have no memory of my parents. Zembi told me only that they were farmers . . . and that they feared their daughter greatly. Apparently a pack of Reds attacked the farm when I was an infant, descending out of the night to pick off the livestock. One got into the house and found me in my crib. My father shot it before it could eat me, but its blood got on my skin, in my mouth. And yet I didn’t die, but I did burn down the house. Fearing me subject to some curse sent by the Benefactors, they took me to the local Devos, a man far wiser than Zarhi here, who had a long-standing friendship with Philos Zembi, famed genius of the Enclave. Clearly I was far too important to be left in the hands of simple farmers.”
“And you never found out till that moment?” Clay asked.
“My education and co-operation were easier to achieve if I grew up believing we had a familial bond.”
“Still a shit thing to do.”
Kriz turned away from Zarhi to regard her father, staring at his tensed, determined features as he bore her younger self away. “I suppose so,” she said. “But I’ve come to understand that he was a man beset by many troubles. It’s often the way with those who dare to make their dreams a reality.”
? ? ?
She was older in the next memory, Clay guessing her age at somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. This Krizelle stood on a lawn of well-tended grass alongside a large crystal structure Clay quickly realised he had seen before. It was a sculpture of a man holding both arms aloft. His hands appeared unfinished, frozen in the act of growing fingers. A quick survey of their new surroundings confirmed it, the vast granite wall of the mountain’s interior lit by a soft orange glow from below, the same hard-angled buildings with their balconies, bridges and stairs, so many stairs.
“The city beneath the Nail,” he said in a soft murmur, gaze tracking over the successive stairways that had taken him to his confrontation with the White.
“Welcome to the Philos Enclave,” Kriz said, stepping into view and frowning at the recognition evident in his face. “You’ve been here before.”
“That I have. It was . . .” He paused to gaze around at all the people crowding the various staircases and terraces. “. . . quieter then.”
“You mean empty,” she said with grim certainty. “Lifeless.”
“Not exactly. There was something living here alright.”
“What . . . ?” Kriz’s question died as a child’s cry of frustration sounded across the lawn. Clay saw the younger Krizelle going to comfort a boy several years her junior engaged in furiously kicking the mangled crystal ring at his feet.
“Won’t do what it’s told!” the boy fumed as he kicked.