He sighed out a foggy breath and raised his gaze to the top of the spire, seeing the stars twinkling in the darkening sky beyond its pointed summit. What are you? he asked it, once again churning over the alien images in his head. During the journey here he had assumed the fulfilment of his vision would uncover a plethora of answers, a trove of enlightenment to banish his perpetual confusion. Instead, there was only this vast monument, which he increasingly felt was somehow taunting him with its indifference.
He lowered his gaze and trudged back to the camp. Steelfine stood at the stewpot, overseeing the evening meal whilst the rest of them huddled around their fires. The cold had worsened since they got here and Scrimshine was of the opinion that they had perhaps one more week before the chill became severe enough to force a return journey. Although their respective professions made them a hardy bunch, it was clear the party was beginning to succumb to the depredations of the climate. Eyes were bright with a weariness that bordered on exhaustion and their movements exhibited an increasingly sluggish lethargy. Loriabeth was by far the worst off having been reduced to a near-immobile state, swaddled in thick layers of clothing and rarely venturing far from the fire. Judging by the persistent shudders that wracked her and the increasing gauntness of her face Clay was unwilling to wait another day, never mind a week.
“We have two barrels of powder,” Hilemore said as Clay slumped down next to the fire. “Blasting our way in seems the only viable option.”
“Powder won’t even dent that thing,” Clay replied, accepting a bowl of stew from Steelfine. He gulped down a few mouthfuls before meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “We got only one real option now, Captain. I think you know that.”
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“How much can you tolerate at one time?”
Clay took the flask of Red from Hilemore and removed the stopper. They had five flasks altogether, enough to power the Superior’s engine for a full week at maximum speed. “Don’t rightly know,” he said, raising the flask to his lips and taking a large gulp, quickly followed by another. He staggered a little as the product slid into his belly then immediately began to spread throughout his veins. Miss Lethridge possessed plenty of knowledge about how drake blood affected the body but he hadn’t felt any particular need to ask her to share it, something he now had occasion to regret. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He forced down another gulp, then focused his gaze on the semicircular depression Hilemore’s sailors had hacked at the base of the spire. He unleashed the Red slowly at first, the air misting with steam that billowed high before being caught by the wind. The cloud drifted off to the left for a few yards then turned to snow, piling up into a sizable drift as Clay continued to melt the ice. By the time he had exhausted all the Red in his body, the depression had deepened by at least ten feet and widened to twice its former width.
“Still nothing,” Hilemore said, peering down at the revealed surface of the spire. Clay saw that ice had already begun to form on the rising pool of melt-water at the base of the depression and once again raised the flask to his lips, draining it completely. “Best get a chain of buckets going, Captain,” he told Hilemore. “I’m guessing this is gonna be a long day.”
They worked in relays for the next hour, Clay melting the ice then pausing to let the sailors bail out the melt-water. After three flasks he began to feel decidedly woozy and found his focus slipping, Scrimshine scuttling away amidst a babble of profanity when Clay’s heat-stream strayed from its target to singe the toe of his boot.
“Alright,” Hilemore said, reaching out to steady Clay as he staggered. “That’s enough for now.”
Clay shook off his hand and moved to the edge of the depression. It had grown into a smooth-sided bowl some fifteen feet wide and at least twice that deep. “Still got a few drops left.” He slid down to the bottom of the bowl then crouched to peer at the spire beneath the ice. It was less opaque now, rendered glass-like by the heat, and he could discern the way the spire broadened the deeper it went. Also, another dozen feet deeper from where he crouched, he could see a dark circular shape in the spire’s surface.
“We got something,” he called over his shoulder. “Bring me another flask.”
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Clay was ready to drop by the time night began to fall. Using up so much Red so quickly drained his energy at a faster rate than the cold, but he refused all entreaties to stop. It took another two flasks to burn his way down to the upper edge of the circle he had glimpsed through the ice. It proved to be a deeply recessed and, judging by the curve, perfectly circular interruption in the otherwise featureless surface of the spire. Clay could poke a hand through the gap between the ice and the edge of the circle, but the interior proved too gloomy to make out any detail.
“One more should do it,” he said, extending a hand to Hilemore.
“We only have one left,” the captain replied with an emphatic shake of his head. “And who’s to say when we’ll need it.”
“We came too far to quit now,” Clay said, fighting a wave of fatigue.
Hilemore crouched, eyes tracking over the ice and the revealed aperture in critical appraisal. “We know the powder won’t hurt the spire,” he said. “But it should shatter enough ice to allow access, if there’s any to be had.”
Braddon rigged the fuses with Steelfine’s assistance. They hacked a hole into the bottom of the small cavern that Clay had crafted, placing both barrels side by side and inserting the fuse-wire before climbing out and retreating to a safe distance.
“W-won’t it shatter the ice b-beneath us?” Loriabeth chattered, breath misting from the narrow hood that mostly covered her face.
“Take more than a few barrels for that, missy,” Scrimshine told her, baring his few teeth in an attempt at a reassuring grin. “Ice goes down a long ways here.”
“Everybody hunker low as you can and cover your ears,” Braddon said, striking a match and touching it to the fuse-wire. Clay watched the ball of sparks dance across the ice before disappearing into the cavern, then lowered his head and clamped his gloved hands to his ears. The blast came two seconds later, the force of it enough to lift him clear of the ice for a second and cover them all with a fine dusting of displaced snow. Before the boom faded, Clay rose and hurried towards the cavern, sliding down its walls to the bottom where a three-foot-deep fissure had been blasted into the ice. The floor of the cavern was also cracked all over. He called to Hilemore for a flask of Black and used it to clear away the icy boulders and prise up the shattered chunks, casting them away into the darkening sky as he dug deeper. He had always found Black far less taxing than Red and he made rapid progress, adding another five feet to the cavern’s depth by the time he was done.
The others slid down to join him as he stood staring at what he had uncovered.
“What in the Travail is that?” Skaggerhill asked. They could only see the upper half of what appeared to be a giant cog sitting within a circular recess. With the light failing, Hilemore ordered lamps lit before they moved in for a closer inspection.