Chapter 29

The Bilo Shore, Hith’s Cauldron

I will give you a goat, Hult thought. Jijin, if I survive to reach the Chaldar—if I survive the next few moments—I will give you ten goats. I will cut their throats and pour the blood upon the ground. I will burn the fat of their hindquarters on an altar in your honor. I will—

He stopped, realizing how many times he’d made that very promise since the massacre at the Run. There likely weren’t enough goats in all of Taladas to make good on all his vows. He would have to spend the rest of his life wielding the sacrificial knife, making offerings of gore, prostrating himself before the horse-god in all his glory. He shook his head as the fireship descended toward the Burning Sea.

Enough of this, he told the god. If I die, I die. It is up to you.

Shedara was muttering, invoking her own strange gods of woodland and magic. Nakhil fingered a string of beads, eyes shut, lips unmoving. Azar simply looked straight ahead; he had no gods. He didn’t know what a god was.

As for the gnomes, they carried on like any ship’s crew, shouting and cursing and scurrying about the stone deck. They were lowering toward a lake of liquid fire and racing to confront a deadly army on the march, but by their behavior, it could have been simply a day of ill weather at the harbors of Kristophan or Suluk. Hult took comfort from that, and from the heft of the frostblade in his hand.

The sword was all wrong—too short, too straight for his liking. And he had his doubts about the white dragon bile. But he had to admit there was something oddly comforting about the weapon.

Still, as they cleared the stone shaft that led down from the gnomish wharf and began to descend through open air, he had to stop himself from offering the goats again.

The gnomes had tunneled a bight out of the columns, making a sheltered cove surrounded by the massive stone pillars. Hult didn’t dare look down, so he looked out instead, across the Cauldron.

The kurshakur were plain to see from there: a wall of fire little more than a league away, creeping toward Ilmach across the roiling red lava. He glanced at the frostblade in his hand and almost laughed: the short sword seemed pitiful against such a horde. A thousand warriors armed with the weapons wouldn’t be able to prevail against such a force.

“This is going to be difficult,” said Nakhil, gazing at the kurshakur.

“That’s a word for it,” agreed Shedara. She wriggled her fingers, readying them for her spells. “Azar, if we need your help, can you give it?”

Azar thought about it. He alone was unperturbed by the sight of the army of fire swarming across the Burning Sea. “I will try. I don’t control my powers the way you do. I can only see what must be done, and then do it.”

Shedara met Hult’s eyes and made a face. Not good enough, her gaze said, but she shrugged it off and glanced over the gunwale. Sweat streamed down her brow, and Hult became aware of how much he was perspiring as well: despite the cooling armor of the minoi, it was still hotter than midsummer on the Tamire.

“Almost there,” Shedara said. “Hold tight.”

He wanted to grab her hand, but she wasn’t sitting close enough, so he tightened his fingers around the edge of the bench where he sat. There was a sound that was more slurp than splash—the Cauldron was thicker than any sea of water—and the boat lurched, rocking him forward on his seat. He winced, half expecting the flames to rise, the magma to eat its way through the hull and turn them to cinders.

None of that happened. Instead there was a hiss of steam, then the familiar rocking of waves. The tang of hot metal stung his nostrils, but the boat didn’t explode or melt. The gnomes let out a cheer, and Hult found himself whooping along with them as Nosk climbed up a ladder and unhooked the chain from the Varya. The captain gave it a hard shake, and it began to rise away.

“All clear the chain!” Nosk called. “Stations!”

The minoi scrambled, taking positions along the deck.

“Hull holding!” shouted one.

“Furnace hot!” called another.

“Steering oars, aye!”

“Wheel ready!”

“Good!” Nosk answered. “Yorgamathrukindopar-thashullotagamas! Keep an eye on the kurshakur, will you? We’re going to be cutting this close as it is. I want to know if anyone breaks from that line!”

“Aye, captain!” called a small, slender gnome perched on the bowsprit: a lookout.

“All right, then, start the wheel!” Nosk declared and leaned close to Hult and the others as he crossed to the tiller. “Be ready. There’ll be a slight jolt. Nothing at all to worry about.”

Someone turned a crank, and there was a rumble beneath them. Steam burst from pipes near the furnace with a shriek that made Hult’s skull buzz. He gritted his teeth and nearly fell backward out of his seat as the fireship shot forward.

It accelerated faster than the best warhorse. The great paddlewheel turned faster and faster, steel oars diving into the molten rock again and again and again, slinging magma in an amber cascade behind them, then emerging red hot, and cooling as they passed through the air before dipping into the magma again. Hult gawked at the wheel, fascinated, not really certain what was causing it to spin. It was something to do with the shrieking furnace, certainly, but what? Then he turned his gaze back toward Ilmach as it slipped away behind them.

The gnomish citadel was huge, covered with windows, all aglow with inner lights. He could see shadows in most of them: diminutive figures who had stopped whatever toil they were doing to watch the kurshakur. Dozens of airships hung above, waiting. If it went badly, Malkis had told him, there would be an evacuation—not of the minoi, but of the plans for their machines. They were too valuable to lose and would be sent to the other colonies, along with word that their reinforcements should turn back and see to protecting their own homes.

Hult saw something else too: row upon row of brass tubes, jutting from near the bottoms of the columns. More and more emerged from the stone as he watched, poking out of holes in the stone. There were hundreds, pointing south across the Cauldron, toward the kurshakur. It made him think, strangely, of the spines of the charvat, a giant lizard that prowled the steppes and sometimes preyed on the Uigan’s herds. When threatened, the charvat raised bony spines along its back to protect itself. Ilmach seemed to be doing the same thing.

“What are those for?” he asked Shedara. She frowned and shook her head. He turned to call the question out to Nosk, but the captain’s raspy voice drowned him out.

“Coming hard larboard! Hang on!”

Hult did what he could but ended up tumbling sideways into Azar as the Varya’s bow swung sharply to the left. Nakhil lost his balance altogether and slammed against the rail. As the agile little boat turned, it leaned precariously, giving Hult and the others a good view of the Cauldron’s churning surface. Then it righted itself and shot away parallel to the craggy shore, running close to the coast and flinging its fan of lava even higher as it gained speed. The gnomes kept working, unperturbed.

“Open her up, lads!” Nosk bellowed. “We’re gonna run full out! If the kurshakur want us, let’s make them work for us!”

The minoi answered with a cheer. Someone shouted about the valves being wide. The fireship gained even more speed, the furnace belching great blasts of steam as the wheel whirled faster and faster. The bow actually began to lift into the air from the speed. Hult felt the wind in his face, and exhilaration unexpectedly took hold of him. It was like when he’d used to ride a horse as hard as he could, across the steppes. There was a wild abandon about it that made him feel, strangely, at home.

Then a voice called out and killed his cheer completely. It was Yorgam, the lookout at the bow.

“Kurshakur to starboard!” he yelled. “They’re coming for us!”

Hult glanced toward the Chaldar, expecting to see a small group of fire creatures that had split away from the main army—eight, ten, maybe as many as twenty. Instead, the mass of approaching kurshakur was far larger—perhaps a hundred in all, a seething mass of flames.

“Khot,” he swore.

Shedara laughed. “Well put. Forlo would be proud. Nosk, what do we do now? Are we going to try to outrun them?”

The captain shook his head, his single eye sparkling. “Can’t,” he said. “Not enough distance between us and them, and they’re coming too fast. We’ll have to fight.”

“If we do, we’ll die,” Nakhil said. “There are too many of them.” He waved a hand toward the kurshakur.

“I didn’t say we’d be fighting alone,” Nosk shot back. He shook his head. “There’s a lot you don’t know, horse-man. Furnace low, lads! Bring us down. We don’t want to get too far from the columns now!”

The gnomes grumbled but did as he bade. The steam lessened, the wheel slowed, and Nosk brought the boat around in a broad arc that left them facing directly toward the fire minions. Hult stared at the wall of living flame rushing toward him, then up at Nosk, who guided the ship to a halt. It bobbed on the magma, moving with the current alone.

“Repeaters!” Nosk bellowed. “Break ’em out, lads! Pass ’em around! Let’s keep the flickering bastards from getting too close!”

There was a stack of crates at the stern. Two minoi worked the lids off with pry bars, pulling out the most bizarre weapons Hult had ever seen. They looked like crossbows gone completely insane, with all sorts of clicking, whirring machinery affixed to them. Each held a rack of quarrels on top, and he could see they were no ordinary bolts. Each was tipped with a tiny, glass vial instead of a head; inside, drops of pale blue liquid sloshed around.

“More dragon bile?” he asked Nosk.

The captain bared his silver teeth. “You’re a quick one, for a barbarian.”

The gnomes passed out the crossbows, one by one. Someone put one in Hult’s hands: it was surprisingly light, for all its bulk. He examined it, brow furrowed.

“The mechanism feeds it quarrels and cocks the string,” Nosk said, pulling a lever on the side of his own weapon’s stock. It made a chattering sound, and the string pulled back as a bolt dropped into place. “Just pull and loose, pull and loose. There’s a dozen shots in a rack, and you can empty it in a couple minutes. But have those swords ready. It’ll probably still come to close quarters, even with help.”

“What help?” Shedara asked, loading her crossbow.

“It’s the spines,” Hult said, understanding.

“What?” Shedara asked.

“Those.” Hult pointed back at the citadel and the brass tubes protruding from the columns. “That’s why you didn’t want to get far from Ilmach, isn’t it?”

Nosk grunted, clapping Hult on the shoulder. “Damn right.”

“What are they for?” Shedara asked.

The captain only grinned. “You’ll see. A little surprise!”

They all exchanged glances. Nakhil shrugged. “We won’t have to wait long, I think,” he said, nodding toward the kurshakur. They were almost upon the fireship.

“Places!” Nosk barked, striding forward. “Look sharp, lads! Don’t let them catch us with our spanners in our hands!”

The gnomes ran to the bow, all but the one who stood by the furnace. He stayed where he was, his snowy beard streaked with soot, waiting for word from his captain. Hult and the others hurried forward too, forming a second rank behind the smaller minoi.

“Hold till I say!” Nosk boomed. “Anyone looses early, he goes over the side!”

The gnomes all laughed, but it was a grim, humorless sound. They cradled their mad crossbows in their arms, not yet raising them to aim. Hult did the same. He caught a glance from Azar and knew what was going through the boy’s mind: he’d never shot anything before and was only following along, pretending he knew what he was doing.

Too late to teach him, Hult thought. Just don’t let him hit any of us.

The kurshakur came on, and Hult revised his count to a hundred and fifty. He could make them out distinctly—the flowing, dancing shapes of their bodies, with only the barest human outline. They carried swords and spears and whips, all made of living flame. Their green eyes flashed with hate. They saw flesh and wanted to sear it, char it, devour it.

When the minions were less than a hundred paces from the ship, a sound blared behind them, enormously loud, startling Hult so badly that he almost dropped his crossbow. It was a roaring whistle, not unlike the alarm that had interrupted their audience with Algando. Hult glanced back and saw steam erupting from chimneys above the brass tubes. He frowned, confused. Then the tubes began to vomit water, all at once.

“Mother of Astar,” Shedara swore. “So that’s what all those tanks were for.”

The water came out in jets, like the white-foaming rivers that tumbled down from the Ilquar Mountains back home. It arced like arrows in flight, rising high above their little boat then falling back down again, more like thunderbolts than rain. The streams struck right in the midst of the kurshakur, and instantly the minions vanished in a cloud of steam that billowed high into the black sky. A chorus of tormented sounds, like the whooshes of quenched campfires mixed with screams of pain, rose out of the vapor. At the ship’s prow, the gnomes cheered.

“Settle down!” called Nosk. “You know the cannons won’t lick ’em all. Now be ready!”

The minoi calmed down, raising their crossbows as one. Hult did the same and sighted down its length, watching the steam. Above, the streams of water faltered and stopped. Drops pattered down, hissing when they struck the lava. Slowly, the mass of steam began to dissipate, and the surviving kurshakur boiled forth.

Though the flood had killed two-thirds of them, simply snuffing them out of existence, that still left about fifty, furious and charging, burning blades held high. Hult picked one, kept his quarrel trained on it, and waited.

“Hold,” growled Nosk. “Hold…”

They were close, near enough that Hult began to feel the heat of their fiery bodies. There was nothing human in their eyes, no compassion or pity or even sanity; there was only hunger, a wildfire’s yearning to destroy all it touched. His finger twitched on his weapon’s trigger as he fought against the urge to shoot. The others held back too, waiting… waiting.…

“Loose!” the captain cried. “Now!”

Strings thrummed. Hult pulled his trigger and the crossbow kicked against his shoulder, bucking like a mare in heat. Azar stumbled back with a shout, shocked at his weapon’s power. Nakhil reached out to steady him as Hult watched the volley of quarrels climb high, then dive down toward the kurshakur. Many missed their mark, falling uselessly into the magma, but here and there, a bolt found one of the minions, and the creature shrieked and vanished like a candle flame in a stiff breeze. Seven of the creatures died, and the gnomes worked their levers, the air filling with the clanking of machinery as the crossbows reloaded themselves.

“Keep it up, lads!” Nosk yelled. “Hit ’em again! Shoot at will!”

The air filled with quarrels for some time, the gnomes loosing, reloading, then loosing again. Across the magma, mayhem reigned. One by one, the kurshakur disappeared, struck down by the storm of bolts. Hult shot one after another: the contraption wasn’t so different from a normal bow, once he got used to it slamming into his shoulder. Bit by bit, the throng of fire minions dwindled: thirty, twenty, ten. Hult ran out of bolts and dropped the crossbow, yanking his frostblade from its scabbard and stepping back to hold it ready.

It wasn’t necessary. As he settled into his fighting stance, Nakhil’s final quarrel flew through the air, straight into the heart of the last remaining kurshak. The creature howled as it guttered out.

The gnomes didn’t cheer again; the slaughtering done, they were already moving back to their stations aboard the Varya. Nosk barked orders about valves, and the furnace began to shriek again. The wheel turned, and in moments the ship was under way, veering away from the advancing army and churning across the Cauldron as fast as it could run. Only then, as they left Ilmach and Maladar’s minions behind, did the minoi begin to shout and laugh and celebrate their victory.

“Easy now, lads,” said Nosk from the helm, one hand on the tiller. “Long way still to go, and plenty of trouble to be had on the way.” But he was grinning too, his teeth flashing in the light of the Burning Sea.

Shedara clapped Hult’s shoulder. “How many?” she asked.

He glanced at her. “What?”

“How many did you shoot?”

“Oh,” Hult said and cast his mind back. “Five, I think.”

Shedara raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“I assume you got more.”

“Eight,” she said, laughing when Hult’s face turned sour. “Don’t worry. Like Nosk said, we’ve got a long way to go. Three days, by my reckoning. You might get a chance to catch up.”

Hult nodded, looking away across the sea. Beyond the fire, beyond the roiling, molten rock, loomed the Chaldar. It coiled and writhed, throwing off tongues of blue flame that flared and faded into smoke. A long way away still… but not so far, really, after all they’d been through. Not so far at all.