“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
She was quite dry. Strange, I thought, and then I realized why. I realized why she was shivering. It wasn’t with cold, was with fear. She hadn’t done it before. Suddenly disgusted, I sat back on my haunches, hard-muscled belly and prick stuck up in front, larger than ever before. She focused on it, awed.
I rubbed her with the tip of my thumb, and slowly eased two fingers in together, feeling the membrane tear stickily. Her strong struggling gave way to whimpers. She became slick with blood. I wiped a red fingertip over her pale mouth. She spat.
I could feel her heat. I was dizzy with it. Stark with impatience I held my cock and tried to ease in. Bony bitch. I wriggled my hips. Just inside her. Soft, warm. In a hard cold world. One hard thrust and I was as deep in as I could reach. A gasp of pleasure from me, a scream from her. Lust overcame my annoyance and I started fucking her as hard as I could.
I was propped up on stiff arms, looking down onto her sharp-featured face, using her body to rub my cock. I was shoving her body backward on the rocky ground. She was very tight and very hot, lubricated by blood. Her nipples were small and pointed, dragging faded cloth like a ridge between them. She felt better than I had ever imagined. I was elated, had a cat-eyed girl at last. Sex is scrambled with flatlanders.
I spread my wings, to angle my hips better, but Genya wouldn’t run her fingers between the feathers tented over her. She put one hand on my arse, to pull me in farther.
I threw my fuck into her, scooping with my hips. I felt a point of heat at the base of my cock. I gasped. She tried to throw me off. That made me more excited. I meant to pull out, but she was too delicious. I emptied myself into her. Fast, and the next few thrusts were slick and squeezed. Her body went limp.
Possession slackened its hold on me. I pulled out and stood up, already guilty. My muscles were aching from the exertion of the chase. I shoved my damp prick back into leggings and buttoned my trousers.
Gradually Genya stood up, pallid, and contemplated the cliff edge.
“You’re leaving now, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes.”
That’s Rhydanne sex.
Genya watched me lift my wingtips from the ground, a look of utter dismay on her face. There was a smear of my come and her blood on her thigh.
I found my bearings; we were on the slope of Stravaig. Mhor Darkling’s triple peak was just visible behind its white summit, a sight I had not seen for a hundred years. I lost interest in Dara, remembering my long-lost life in Darkling valley.
Genya set off at a sprint along the ridge—the spur formed a track leading to Basteir sheiling. She hit a snow patch and slithered dangerously, regained her balance and increased her speed until she was almost flying, running above nothingness. I took a slow glide back to Scree.
Now, in August Tower, as the sickness came on, I spent all night dwelling on my deficiencies. And on Genya.
A
ta returned an hour before dawn, in a heavy woolen shawl. She was wearing her husband’s 1851 Sword, that he had so greatly prized. The lacquer scabbard described an arc at her side; rayskin-covered ivory and black silk accents on the hilt. The blade was forged from a charcoal-hardened steel sheet folded one thousand and one times; its weighting was immaculate. Wrought steel is the finest produced anywhere. The sword had never been used; as keen as the day it was honed, it could bisect an Insect without slowing. I lusted after it. It would perfect every fighting move I knew; just wearing it would bring respect and brawlers would steer clear. It was the apex of Awian craft, made for their Great Exhibition, and then presented by the King to Peregrine manor, where it remained in pride of place. Mist kept the 1851 Sword in a glass cabinet. Ata had smashed the cabinet and buckled the sword at her waist.
Ata began to take measurements on a map of Lowespass Fortress Crag. Out of the window I could see the tapering mainland, which looked as if it was hanging in the air; the sky and the sea were the same pale blue and I could not distinguish between them. The wind had dropped, now blowing from the land out to sea. Where there had been foam-capped breakers, the water rippled silver like a tray of mercury. I watched the mainland, waiting for the sun to rise.
Instead, a star appeared on the mainland, shining at the water’s edge. I could see the star’s reflection in the sea; it was a pallid, flickering yellow point of light. I squinted at it but couldn’t figure out what it was, and the concentration made my headache worse.
“Mortal,” I called, “come and look at this.”
“Ah, it does speak,” Ata countered. “Thought it just slumped there and shivered.” She gathered her thick shawl and joined me at the window. I pointed out the bright, unsteady light. “Do you know what that is?”
“Of course. It’s the Awndyn lighthouse.”
“We can see that far?” Awndyn was thirty kilometers’ straight flight away. The storm had washed the air clear.
“Aye. It’s at the end of the harbor wall. Strange Swallow should light it by day, eccentric lass.”
“It’s not strange. It’s a signal! Lightning, you’re a genius!”
“That’s as may be, but it’s not a good sign—it’s a steady light. I think they’re in trouble; we have to go
now
. Jant, can you fight?”
“Fight? I can’t even stand up!”
Ata ran to the stairs and called down, “Carmine, what’s ready?”
The hatchet-faced hoyden appeared in the doorway. “Everything. The twenty Great Ships are packed with Hacilith fyrd. Horses and wagons are on the
Ortolan
; the third-raters and pinnaces are to carry supplies. The
Tragopan
’s still loading, but we can’t all leave the harbor on the same tide anyway.”
“Then we will take the
Stormy Petrel
.”
Carmine bowed her head.
“You take charge of the
Tragopan
, my dear, and the other seventy-eight to follow. Meet us at six tonight ten degrees north of Sheldrake Point.”
Carmine nodded and ducked back down the stairs.
Ata pressed my sword into my grasp. “Jant, you can do better than this!”
I scrambled to my feet. “Have you got any cat?”
“Cat? You mean scolopendium? No, and I doubt there’s any available anywhere in the world now.”
“I only have a couple of hours left, I don’t want to go—”
She beckoned, sternly, and I followed her down the stone spiral staircase, out onto the wooden gantry and down to the flat rocks at September Tower harbor. I screwed my eyes up against the sunshine. My pupils were so dilated everything was glaring white or deep black shadow. The ocean was just a huge, painfully bright hole. Ata’s white slacks and flaxen hair dazzled in the light.
The cobbled quayside bustled with thousands of men, talking loudly. It was a crush, polearms soldiers and sarissai, bands of crossbowmen with the Red Fist blazon of Hacilith on their buff coats, and at least two divisions of Awian Select longbowmen looking worn out, stressed and unpreened.
Stevedores were loading the
Tragopan
with three weighted hoists. Men were pushing dockside carts on their iron rails, full of barrels, pitch casks, piles of arrow sheaves. Chains of people passed along sharpened staves, sacks of anti-Insect salt, creels of food—they were stowed in the holds until the brightly painted caravel sat low in the water.
The harbor wall hugged all the ships in an angular embrace, concrete shining slick with slime. The ships’ masts were so close together they looked tangled, and wires clattered against them as the wind blew through rigging.
Hacilith men caught sight of Ata and me from the deck of the
Stormy Petrel
. They yelled, “Look!” to their comrades, pointing excitedly to the quayside. Ata waved demurely, and they erupted in a cheer. I wondered if any would see their city again.
Ata prodded me across the narrow plank over the gap between September Tower harbor and the
Stormy Petrel
’s deck. I hung onto the railings as a whistle called the crew to attention and Ata ordered the sails set.
The
Stormy Petrel
pulled elegantly away from its mooring. I gazed at the harbor wall sliding past.
“Are you still alert, degenerate Rhydanne?”
“I need—”
“Don’t say it! Don’t talk about drugs—I don’t like it!”
“Neither do I.”
“Thousands of people are dying in Awia, and we are going to stop that happening.”
The
Stormy Petrel
scudded swiftly across the thirty-kilometer-wide strait to Awndyn strand. The square burgundy mainsails bellied out like clouds. Slipstream poured off the lateen rig behind; it ruffled my feathers, making me gag. The sea has definite advantages. You can puke in it if you are very ill, which I was. I retched over the side, for hours until only bile came up; it tasted like Insect blood.
At the wheel, Ata muttered to her ship all the time, “Faster, you bastard.” The Crystal Palace blade in its black scabbard hung loose at her thigh.
A
wndyn harbor looked deserted. Streams of pale gray smoke rose from the lighthouse, the only movement. But along the seven-kilometer sweep of sand tiny figures milled and churned.
About five hundred soldiers in Awndyn green were fighting in a tightening ring of Insects.
Insects appeared from the town’s facade. They darted along the harbor wall and down sea-wrack stone steps, up from the shallow river bed. Insects the size of ponies ran over the grassy machair, jumping onto the sand. They picked their way between the headstones of Awndyn Cemetery, plunged down among the yellow dunes.
Farther back, Insects were nibbling spilled blood on the marram grass. They followed the scent trail down to the beach. I could just make out patches of sand stuck to their gore-spattered chitin.
Some reared on saw-edged back legs, feelers flickering as they closed in. The Awndyn men were being pushed together, losing ground. They retreated toward the sea. The gap between them and the Insects was narrowing all the time.
Adrenaline roused me. “There’s a division’s worth of men!” I called.
“I hoped for many more,” said Ata.
“I can see the Archer!”
It was impossible to miss Lightning. His gold scale armor glittered in the early sun. Bareheaded, and with bindings unwrapping from his greaves, he was waving the soldiers round into a circle, and pushing someone back behind him with the other hand.
Swallow. It was Swallow Awndyn, propped on her spear, and she had Cyan under her arm.
Harrier was shoulder to shoulder with Lightning; he faltered back on the wet sand then flexed his bow again.
Long dawn light cast their footprints as jumbled blue shadows on the yellow sand. The air was very clear, faint shouts carried to us; Lightning trying to keep their formation but men kept breaking away, chancing a run to the sea.
Ata steered starboard, as close in as she could, and
Stormy Petrel
careened parallel to Awndyn strand, almost at right angles to the wind, and lost speed until we stopped opposite the mass of Insects and struggling men.
“This crate is so unresponsive,” said Ata. “If I go any nearer, leeway will beach the bastard.”
The Insects closed in. Lightning shot straight into them. He was loosing arrows the fastest I had ever seen. The quiver on his right hip was empty, and he was pulling arrows from the quiver on his back. Insects ran straight at him; he shot them down. He kept a distance of thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters.
I could hear Cyan crying.
“We only have a minute!” I said.
Ata strode onto the lower deck. “We’ll have to pick them up.”
She shouted the length of the deck, and I heard the thick anchor chain rattle out from the bow. The
Stormy Petrel
drifted completely round before the anchor caught, and the stern anchor was released. Ata’s crew began to lower boats in rope cradles, three from each side, into the water.
The boats splashed down simultaneously. Six sailors to each descended neat cord-and-lath ladders and unshipped the oars.
Ata turned to me. “Messenger, wait here.” She caught a ladder and lowered herself over the side.
The
Stormy Petrel
’s massive flanks dwarfed the six landing craft. I watched them buck and toss over the waves, oars like Insect legs leaving white tracks in the water.
Most of the Awndyn fyrd were already waist-deep in the sea. Around fifty archers were standing in the waves, bows held above their heads, swords drawn in their free hands. Insects followed them into the surf, holding their abdomens high and gnashing mandibles.
Ata stood in the prow of her boat impassively, while it dipped and heeled, and the oarsmen struggled. The six boats approached the cluster of archers—and nearly capsized as men grabbed the sides and tipped the boats in their haste to get aboard.
Grasping and spluttering, they ignored Ata’s cries for order. They surged forward, up to the neck, throwing bows away. The oarsmen reached down, heaved them, belts, wings and armpits, and hoisted them over the gunwales.
As the boats neared shore, they reached men still in their depth, and boathooked them aboard, arses in the air. Laden boat hulls grated against the sand.
Lightning said something to Swallow, who kicked off her leg-armor and plunged in, wisely making for a boat which didn’t have Ata in it. Harrier carried Cyan. Lightning removed the silk string from his great bow, held it up and stepped into the surf, the last Awndyn men behind him.
The six boats were so crammed with soldiers—about seventy in each—everyone was standing. The rowers held their oars up out of the locks, Ghallain-style. They fought to turn their boats prow-on against the waves, and began to paddle back toward me.
T
he coast was left to the Insects.
T
he landing crafts’ return journey took ages. I watched Insects pick over bodies on the sand. An Insect buried its head under a corpse and flicked it over. Two of them took an arm each, and, walking backward, tore a man apart.
I was shaking.
Lightning might give me my syringe back. A soldier might have some medicine—I mean cat—to arrest my decline. I told myself, Jant, don’t be so fucking ridiculous. I stopped trying to control the shivering, relaxed, and it took over completely.
I helped Swallow as she appeared from the top of the rope ladder, panting, onto the deck. She had a leaf-green mantle around her throat, and a rondel dagger stuck down her bodice lacings.
I embraced her. “What happened to Awndyn manor?” I asked.
“Awndyn manor!” She burst into tears. “It’s
swarming
! God’s molt! The Insects have taken the whole Empire, and we’ll have to stay at sea forever to escape them!”
“Rachis, Hacilith and the Plainslands are still holding out,” I said. “Have courage.” With an arm round her, I tried to console her by explaining the Emperor’s message, while soldier after soldier climbed the ladder and emerged, dripping, onto the deck.
Lightning was leaning over the prow, picking off Insects on the beach that were beyond any other archer’s range. He didn’t stop shooting until Ata ordered full sail, and the infested shore shrank out of view.
He turned. “Bring us closer,” he commanded.
Ata was banging the compass housing with her fist and swearing. She spared him a glance. “Save your arrows.”
“If I can’t reach Micawater, I’ll die there on the beach!”
“Oh, shut up. You’ll have your chance when we get to Lowespass.”
“Lowespass? Ata—”
“I want to be Mist Ata. Eighty ships are awaiting a rendezvous at nightfall, full of warriors eager to improve their ranks with the addition of Tornado, the Castle’s champion.”
Lightning gestured at the rabble behind him. “These are the thirteenth division of the Awndyn fyrd. They’re all Select infantry, though there’s nothing Select about them now. Do you have the Micawater archers I sent you? Enough to cover the Hacilith men? Their crossbows have no range at all.”
“Yes, and I have ten thousand soldiers gathered from Morenzia, counted with those from the island and the coast, who thought wrongly that my island would be the best place to seek sanctuary.”
“I see…”
“Lightning Saker, you owe me.”
He looked at her with undisguised loathing, then mastered it and described a formal bow. “Yes,” he said grimly, “I do.”
C
yan did not let go of Swallow; cold and terrified, the girl clutched to Swallow’s good leg and did not say a word. Swallow hunkered down next to me, wiping tears from her eyes and drips from her nose onto her wet auburn wings. She stroked the back of my hand. I forced a smile and squeezed her arm.