Scar Night Page 0,140
The Tooth looked altogether too…complete. Too unmarked.
Too ready.
“Why would Devon come here?” He spoke his thoughts aloud unintentionally.
“Water. It’s one of the few oases in this region we haven’t poisoned.” Hael sneered. “A holy site.”
“But he would easily have been able to reach the Coyle, taken a skiff downriver. Why would he fly against a headwind, and straight to the heathens?”
“He was avoiding the Coyle garrisons. Sandport, Racha, Clune are inimical ports for a fugitive. No doubt he expected to find the Tooth unoccupied. The Heshette are nomadic, and infrequent visitors to Blackthrone.”
Fogwill shook his head. Devon wasn’t stupid. There had to be another reason. He looked down at the Tooth, at the massive blades that had cut sapperbane from the mountain so long ago. Thousands of tons stripped from the mountain, processed, and forged into chains. Abruptly his unease grew to fear. “Would your gases and incendiaries be able to stop that thing if it was moving?”
The aeronaut commander turned slowly. He appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. “He wouldn’t be able to operate it.”
“This is Devon we’re talking about, remember?”
Hael grunted. “The Poisoner missed his one good chance to flee. He’s a fool—or already insane.”
“A fool who evaded a citywide manhunt, kidnapped the Presbyter, and stole an airship from under your nose.”
Evidently the commander did not like to be reminded in front of his men. “We have him now,” he growled.
Fogwill couldn’t tear his gaze from the machine’s cutters—sharpened cogs powerful enough to shred sapperbane. And chains? Darkness take me, I know what you are planning, Devon. Sypes…forgive me, you would understand what I must do . He turned to the warship’s captain. “Start the attack now.”
“Belay that order,” Hael said. “Do not presume, Adjunct, to issue commands aboard my ship.”
Fogwill hitched himself up straighter on his stool. “I am your superior in the service of the Church, Commander.”
“Not aboard this vessel.”
“Then,” Fogwill lowered his voice, “I humbly request that you relay a message for me back to Deepgate. I believe thatis within my rights aboard this vessel.” He didn’t wait for Hael to acknowledge him. “Tell Clay to wake up the regulars and sober up the reservists. I want every last one of them dragged naked from the whorehouses if need be, and as many more volunteers or conscripts as he can find. They are to be armed and ready for a ground assault against the city. The cavalry divisions are to be re-formed, every ex-military beast that’s lugging coal is to be found and requisitioned. Then I want him to scour the Poison Kitchens for whatever those chemists are hoarding, and have the lot brought to the abyss perimeter and scattered in piles, ready for deployment. I want the sappers brought out of retirement—pay those bastards whatever it takes—and I want them undermining the Deadsands towards Blackthrone as though they were digging another abyss. And then I expect the city’s carpenters and smiths to drop everything and to undertake new contracts for the temple. We need heavy offensive ordnance, mangonels, scorpions, siege engines, whatever they can come up with. Tell them I want weapons powerful enough to stop a god.”
“Siege engines? Mangonels? Scorpions?” Hael’s tone had become mocking. “Words from old men’s tales—how are they to build such things?”
“Our history,” Fogwill said. “We warred before. A hundred years ago, two hundred. With the river towns, bandit strongholds, on the fringes of the Deadsands.”
“History?” Hael snapped. “Deepgate has no history. Sypes has it all locked up in his damn books.”
“Then they can use their brains for once. Just look at that thing. We’ll need to breach it like a citadel. Instruct Clay to get everyone working right now, day and night. I don’t care what the cost is. We have a war on our hands.”
Grudgingly, Mark Hael relayed the message through a trumpet to the signalman.
“Now, Commander Hael.” A hollow ache had taken root in Fogwill’s chest. The Presbyter would understand, approve, but still…I’m sorry, Sypes. “When do you suggest we attack?”
The commander got no chance to reply.
“Sir!” the captain said. “The Birkita ’s lifting. She’s running.”
Fogwill leaned across the control panel to see the warship rise from behind the Tooth.
“She’s coming up fast,” Hael said. “He’s flooded the ribs with liftgas. Close on her. Instruct the men to ready grapples, and flag the other ships to burn high, staggered to strike if we miss.” He sprinted towards the port companionway door, turned back once, and spat, “So much for your war.”
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