Kraghurst Station was served by a floating-timber dock arranged along a series of buoys. The whole structure was tethered to the ice by huge chains, so as to allow it to rise and fall with the tide. Clay thought it must have been an impressive sight before Last Look Jack came by for a visit, a fine example of the human facility for ingenuity in even the worst climate. Now, however, it was a ragged thing of splintered and burnt wood, held in place by blackened chains, which had failed to burn in the fires cast by the drakes.
He sat at the front of the launch, Loriabeth huddled close to his side. She was finding the cold harder to bear by the day but reacted with fury to any suggestion she stay on the ship. Captain Hilemore had kept the party as small as possible. In addition to the Longrifles and Hilemore himself, the expedition consisted of the hulking Islander and four of his most trusted riflemen along with a predictably miserable Scrimshine and, to Clay’s surprise, the Corvantine lieutenant and two of his men. Clay suspected that Sigoral’s presence might be due to concerns over what mischief the man might foster in the captain’s absence.
Beyond the ruined dock Clay could see dark, shadowed openings carved into the Shelf where Scrimshine said the inhabitants of Kraghurst Station made their home. “They have their own company,” he explained before they set off. “The Kraghurst Trading Co-operative, they called it. Bunch’ve reprobates who’d been thrown out of the larger corporations for various misdeeds, but they certainly made a good go of it. South Seas Maritime has been trying to buy them out for years.” His gaze darkened as he looked at the ruined dock. “Guessing they won’t have to bother now.”
The launch rounded the western edge of the dock and made for the Shelf where a number of iron ladders had been fixed into the ice. “Ship oars!” Steelfine said as the launch came within the last few feet of the Shelf. “Fix a grapnel on that ladder, if you’d be so kind, Mr. Torcreek.”
Clay flexed his fingers, numb despite the thick gloves he wore, and hefted the rope and grapnel at his feet. The water was placid and the launch close enough to make it an easy throw, the iron hook snagging on one of the lower rungs at the first attempt. Preacher and Braddon helped him haul the launch to the base of the ladder where Clay began to climb up.
“Belay that!” Hilemore barked. “Mr. Steelfine and Lieutenant Sigoral will go first.”
“I ain’t one to shirk a risk, Captain,” Clay told him, finding his pride piqued a little.
“You’re our only Blood-blessed,” Hilemore reminded him. “Without you this mission is over.”
He nodded at Steelfine, who shouldered his way past Clay and onto the ladder, ascending with a sailor’s customary swiftness, Sigoral close behind. The marine had a repeating carbine strapped across his back whilst Steelfine carried a sea-axe and a pistol. The two men reached the top quickly, climbing up onto the ledge and drawing their weapons before disappearing inside. Steelfine’s head reappeared after a few moments. “All clear, sir!”
At Hilemore’s insistence Clay and the Longrifles were the last up the ladder, having spent some time fixing hauling lines to the supplies. Following Scrimshine’s advice, the captain had ensured the food consisted mainly of salted meat plus a crate of preserved limes to stave off scurvy. There seemed to be much more than they would ever need but the convict had been insistent. “When a man’s out on the ice,” he said, “he’ll eat twice what he usually would and still find his belt looser by the day. At these climes the cold wears at you like a grindstone.”
When Clay finally ascended the ladder he found himself confronted by a broad, rectangular cavern with dozens of side tunnels in the walls. Hilemore and Steelfine stood regarding what appeared to be a pile of blackened sticks at the rear of the chamber as the rest of the party went about unpacking the supplies.
“They must have clustered together at the end,” Hilemore commented as Clay drew closer. He could see the pile for what it was now, fleshless skulls grinning up at him from the mass of part-melted bone.
“How many?” he asked.
“Hard to tell,” Steelfine said. “At least twenty here. Lieutenant Sigoral and I found another dozen in the next chamber.”
“A sustained stream of fire,” Hilemore said, glancing around at the glassy smoothness of the surrounding ice. “Last Look Jack was very thorough, it seems.”
“So no survivors,” Clay muttered, turning away from the burnt monstrosity. “At least you gave them some revenge, Captain.”
Hilemore merely glanced at him before turning his gaze to the cavern opening and the Superior sitting at anchor beyond. Clay knew he was wondering if he would ever see it again and wished he could offer some assurance. But the closer they came to their goal, and the fulfilment of their shared future, he found himself increasingly lacking in certainty. We were always going to be here, he reminded himself. But where next?
He saw Hilemore blink before removing his gaze from his ship, striding off, voice raised to cast out a series of orders. “Let’s get these packs filled, lads. I want to be gone from here before nightfall.”
? ? ?
Clay’s judgement proved to be grimly accurate. Their journey through the tunnels and chambers of Kraghurst Station revealed only more corpses in various states of immolation, as well as a wealth of incinerated furniture and supplies. They found only one unburnt body, a large man of middling years huddled in a side tunnel, his hair and skin frozen solid and his eyes two blank orbs in a desiccated leather mask.
“Cold got him,” Scrimshine judged. “And right quick too. Tends to happen when a fella loses all hope of deliverance.”
“He saved himself,” Braddon said. “Found a corner where the fire couldn’t reach.”
“Truly,” Scrimshine conceded. “But what to do next? No ships to take you away. All the food burned up and the open ice the only place left to go.” He crouched to rummage through the dead man’s stiff, frosted clothing, pocketing a small roll of exchange notes. “Won’t do him much good will it?” he said in response to Braddon’s disapproving frown.
They pressed on, the air growing colder the deeper they went. Scrimshine called to Hilemore to halt when they came to a large chamber where daylight could be seen through a narrow opening at the far end. “Looks like we’ve finally had some luck, Skipper,” he said, moving towards a tarpaulin-covered mound. He pulled the tarpaulin aside to reveal a collection of narrow objects, each about seven feet long. They were constructed from a wood-and-wicker frame set atop a pair of iron runners.
“Guessing the dogs went the way of everyone else,” Scrimshine observed. “Not that I mind. Vicious bugger, your sled-dog. Have your fingers off if y’don’t handle him proper.”