The shaft opened out halfway up the wall of a new chamber. Frey heard running water as Silo passed him back the torch and climbed down. He made his way to the edge of the opening, handed down both torches, and climbed down after.
The flames beat back the dark, and showed them part of a low-ceilinged cavern, with the far side still lost in shadow. Before them was black water, slapping and sloshing through a winding channel. That small, restless noise was loud in the silence.
‘The water’s gotta go somewhere, right?’ Frey suggested. Desperate hope ignited inside him at the idea.
‘Yuh,’ said Silo. ‘But water’s where they gather. They eat fish when they can’t get nothin’ bigger.’
‘How long you think the light’s gonna last, Silo?’ Frey asked, waving his torch about to illustrate his point.
A distant cry echoed through the cavern, a sound somewhere between a croak and a shriek. Both of them turned to look in the same direction: the way the water was flowing.
‘Still think it’s a good idea, Cap’n?’
‘I’m not dying in the dark, Silo,’ he said, and it was only as he said it that he realised how absolutely, utterly serious he was about that. ‘I’d rather meet whatever made that sound than wander till our torches go out.’
It wasn’t bravado. Hearing that shriek, an unmistakably inhuman noise, had made the danger he’d been ignoring seem suddenly present and real. But he still feared the lonely, empty dark more than any violent end. Dying unnoticed and unseen, lost and helpless: that was the worst thing he could imagine.
Silo gave an approving grunt. They followed the water along its course, with Silo making occasional marks, until it disappeared into a cleft in the cavern wall. Frey kept a nervous eye on the shadows at the edge of the torchlight as Silo climbed into the water. It came up to his thighs. Frey did the same, and found that the water was surprisingly warm.
They waded into the cleft. Frey was careful to ensure his pistols stayed dry as he went. His cutlass blade stuck into the water, tugging at him like a wayward rudder, but that wasn’t much of a concern. It was a daemonically thralled blade that moved of its own accord and was capable of deflecting bullets. Given all that, he assumed it was rustproof too.
‘What do you reckon happens when you die, Silo?’ he said quietly.
‘You really think this is the time, Cap’n?’
‘Well, since I’m likely to find out pretty soon, yes.’
Silo looked over his shoulder, saw that Frey meant it, and forged on through the water. ‘Me, I’ll go back to Mother ’n’ get born again,’ he said. ‘Back in the pens, most likely. But the stuff I learned this time round, it’ll all be down there, hidden off in the back o’ my mind. And I’ll be better next time.’
‘You’re not scared of dying?’
‘Nuh,’ he said. ‘Ain’t keen on losing my liberty, though. S’pose I won’t remember. But I reckon I’ll remember the sense of it, and I’ll want to have it again.’
Frey thought about that. ‘What about me?’ he asked.
‘You ain’t Murthian. You’re screwed.’
Frey rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, that sounds about right. Members only.’
‘Ain’t too late to convert to the Awakeners,’ said Silo. Frey saw a flash of white teeth as Silo turned his head, and realised he was smiling. ‘Mebbe the Allsoul will take care o’ you.’
A joke? From Silo? Frey wondered if he’d already died. But it was such an unexpected thing that he couldn’t help smiling along.
‘Crake would kill me faster than these ghalls would,’ he said.
‘He’d have to find you first,’ Silo pointed out.
Frey looked at his hand. Once, he’d worn a silver ring. A ring that was daemonically connected to a compass, which always pointed towards it. Crake had fashioned it to keep track of his wayward captain when he disappeared on a three-day drunk. He might have used it to find Frey now, but Frey had given it to Trinica.
‘I knew that woman would be the death of me,’ he murmured, because a bit of black humour was the only way he could deal with the thought of her right now.
‘Worse things to die for,’ said Silo, and they didn’t speak any more for a while.
Trinica. If it all finished here, then it would have finished badly with her, and he couldn’t face the idea of that. Despite the ignominious way she’d kicked him off her aircraft, he’d only thought of it as a temporary setback. Something to deal with after he’d got the Iron Jackal off his case. But if that really had been their last meeting, it was a damned pathetic way to be remembered.
The cleft ended in slope of rubble, where the water splashed down over the rocks into the shadows of a long cavern beyond.
They splashed out of the cleft and made their unsteady way down the slippery rocks. Frey’s legs were soaked, and his socks squished in his boots. Once on steady ground, they tried to get an idea of the cavern they’d found themselves in. It was dank and chilly, kinked and narrow, cluttered by protrusions that bulged from all angles. The stream ran through it in a trough of its own making, carved over centuries through the relentless indifference of nature.
There were no obvious exits in sight, but the cavern extended far beyond the reach of their torches, which showed them little except for the tips of the stalactites that hung menacingly overhead.
There was another shriek from a ghall, this one much closer, loud enough to make Frey jump. He turned on his heel, holding his torch high. There, just on the edge of the light, high up on the wall: eyes! He cried out and raised his pistol, but suddenly he had nothing to aim at. He could have sworn he saw a glitter of light, reflected from the wet orbs of something monstrous. But when he moved closer and thrust out his torch, there was nothing there. Only an angular hole, a patch of darkness in the red rock.
‘There was something there,’ he said, breathlessly. He was frightened by how much it had frightened him.
‘Calm down, Cap’n,’ Silo rumbled. ‘Ain’t one of ’em you got to worry about. It’s when you got ten of ’em you should be scared.’
‘Well, I’m getting an early bloody run-up on it, alright?’ Frey snapped. Then something splashed in the water right by his boot heel, and he spun around and fired.
The report of his pistol was dreadful in the silence. Frey listened to the echoes bounce off up the tunnel, his nerves jangling, a wince frozen on his face. He sucked in air over his gritted teeth.
‘That was a fish, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yuh,’ said Silo.
There was a quiet hissing coming from the edges of the cavern now. An unmistakably sinister sound. The ghalls, out there in the dark.
‘Stream goes that way, Cap’n,’ said Silo.
‘Right,’ he said, and they followed it.
Twenty-Six
Point Blank – The Lair – Ghalls – The Last Stand
What are they waiting for?
Frey had no idea how long the torment had gone on. Minutes? An hour? More? Perhaps it was his imagination, but the torches seemed to be burning with less vigour than before. And all that time, the ghalls had stayed out of sight.
He could hear them. He heard their soft hisses, from behind, to his left and right, overhead. He heard their quiet, hoarse croaks, an occasional distant screech. He caught glimpses of quick scuttling movements, and dusty falls of pebbles that tapped and skittered down the cavern walls. But he never got a look at them.
The dark, he told himself. They’re waiting for the dark.
Progress through the cavern had been slow. The stream had deepened too much to wade through, and the tunnel walls crowded up to the banks so that sometimes they had to edge around protrusions which threatened to push them in. Every metre gained was made with careful treads, in expectation of an attack at any moment. They dared not let their guard down. But the torches were burning low, and the dark was growing stronger. The massive dark that lived underground.
‘Problem,’ said Silo, up ahead. Frey moved closer to the Murthian to see wha
t new obstacle had been put in their path, his pistol ready and eyes scanning the blackness.
He saw the trouble immediately. They’d reached the end of the cavern. The stream they’d been following ran right into the stone and disappeared.
‘Goes under,’ said Silo.
‘Can we swim under with it?’ Frey asked.
Silo pointed meaningfully at his torch.
Frey shook his head at himself. ‘Right, yes. Water puts out fire. I remember.’ He was so jumpy, he wasn’t even thinking straight any more.
Silo moved the torch around, and found a hole in the wall, a metre off the ground. ‘Way through, maybe,’ he said.
Frey stuck his torch in the hole. Beyond was a tunnel that looked even narrower than the shaft they’d climbed up earlier. He’d barely be able to fit his body into that space.
‘I am not crawling through there,’ Frey said.
There was a chorus of shrieks from the darkness behind him.
‘Although,’ he added hastily, ‘a little light wriggling would probably be okay.’
He pushed himself into the tunnel, moving awkwardly on elbows and knees, his torch and pistol held before him. Belatedly he realised how terrible it would be if this was a dead end, or if something was waiting for them at the end of it, but by then he was in. Silo made a mark on the wall and came cramming in after him.
Real claustrophobia attacked him now. He couldn’t move in any direction but forward. If he’d been certain of a way out at the other end, he might have been able to bear it more easily. But it was just as likely that this narrow passage would pinch closed or bend in a way his body couldn’t follow.
‘You can do it, Cap’n,’ said Silo. ‘Ain’t no worse than what we already climbed through.’
He realised that he’d stopped, paralysed by the thought of being trapped. He took a shuddering breath and got moving again.
He should never have clambered in to this tunnel. He should never have insisted on going with Silo to the settlement, when Silo was clearly trying to save him from the danger. He should never have picked up that bloody relic and got himself cursed. They were just the latest in a long, long line of bad decisions that he could trace all the way back to one moment, the mother of every calamity that had befallen him since.
Running out on Trinica on their wedding day.
I should’ve made up with her. Shouldn’t have left it like I did.
Too late. Far too late. But at least he had Silo here with him. At least there was that.
The tunnel widened out by a fraction. Frey gave heartfelt thanks to Silo’s goddess. He reckoned it was worth currying a bit of divine favour at this point, whether he was Murthian or not.
Eyes and throat burning from the smoke of his torch, he made progress. The tunnel curved to the left, but not tightly enough to jam him. His cutlass caught on the rock for one heart-stopping instant, but it came loose with a tug, and he was off again.
Keep going forward. Keep going forward. He repeated it over and over in his head. It was the only thing stopping him from falling to pieces, and he focused on it furiously.
Then, a sight more wonderful than a hundred chests full of ducats: the end of the tunnel! The cold, black opening would have seemed forbidding in other circumstances, but now it promised freedom, and Frey squirmed towards it as fast as he was able.
He was almost there when a face out of his worst nightmares appeared in the gap. Something that seemed to be all mouth, with double rows of long, thin, transparent teeth gaping wide. It had night-black skin, shiny and wet as a seal’s, and bulbous eyes, like a deep-sea fish he’d seen preserved in a museum once, when he’d been dragged there by Amalicia Thade once upon a time. It was a monster out of prehistory, brutally hammered on evolution’s forge and then tossed aside for more elegant things.
Its jaws gaped as it shrieked at him. Frey yelled in response, panic-fired and put a bullet point blank through its tonsils. It fell away with a puzzled squawk.
‘Cap’n!’ Silo snapped at him, as he began to back up frantically. ‘They’re comin’ in behind us, too!’
It was that, and the realisation that Silo had a flaming torch in his hand, that pushed Frey forward again. He thrust his own torch out before him and poked his head out of the end of the tunnel. It emerged close to the floor, so he scrambled through and then pressed himself against the wall, waving his torch about and aiming every which way.
Silo came hot on his heels. As soon as the Murthian found his feet, he shoved his shotgun one-handed into the tunnel mouth and fired with a deafening boom. A fine spray of blood coughed out of the hole and settled on his cheeks and nose.
‘Should hold ’em for a while,’ he said.
Frey stepped over the ghall that he’d shot, which was lying on its side in a loose tangle of limbs. It was a scrawny thing, its narrow ribcage visible, and it had long, thin arms and legs that ended in webbed digits. It was the size of a child, and its skinny body made its huge jaws seem larger still. Its pupils were enormous and froglike, dilated and blinded by death.
‘I never even heard of anything like this,’ he said to himself.
‘What you don’t know about Samarla could fill a library, Cap’n,’ said Silo.
‘What I don’t know about libraries could fill a library,’ Frey replied. His nose wrinkled in disgust. There was a terrible stench here, too strong to be coming from one small body. ‘Let’s get a look at this place.’ He raised his torch, and Silo did the same, adding his light to Frey’s.
The cavern was strewn with bones. Fish bones, animal bones, and that was definitely a human skull right there. Most of them had rotting bits of flesh still attached, and there were chunks of fur and bits of rodents and monkey tails scattered among the carnage. They could see the edge of a black pool, and as their light fell across it, they saw a half-dozen ghalls there, crouched threateningly, with several more slinking out of the water.
‘Well,’ said Frey. ‘This is bollocks.’
More of the creatures were gathering now, emerging from the depths of the cavern where the light didn’t reach. They slunk closer with terrible purpose, hissing quietly. No longer afraid, not in these numbers. Frey and Silo had climbed right into their lair.
‘Don’t shoot ’less they come at you,’ Silo murmured, glancing about. He swung his torch one way and then the other. Shadows lunged as he illuminated the nearby folds and cracks in the rock, but Frey saw nothing that might have been a way out. Croaks and shrieks were coming from the blood-splashed hole they’d entered through. As he watched, a ruined tangle of bodies was pushed out of the hole to slop nauseatingly on to the floor, and more ghalls crawled through.
A grim feeling settled on him, dampening his fear, stifling regret and remorse. The kind of feeling he got when all his choices disappeared, and there was only do or die. Or, in this case, do and die. But under the influence of this morbid sense of the inevitable, death didn’t mean anything. It was just a word to him now.
Time to fight, until he couldn’t.
There was a splash as a ghall broke out of the water, and a rapid slapping of wet feet. He swung his torch towards the sound. The creature came fast, but not fast enough. He straightened his arm and shot it through the chest. Its charge became a tumble and it fetched up in a heap near his feet. Frey booted its corpse in the chops for good measure.
The others didn’t seem fazed by the death of their companion, or startled by the noise. They circled like careful predators around a wounded beast, probing warily and then pulling away. Frey and Silo retreated before them, stepping backwards over cracked bones and rancid flesh.
His arse bumped against the wall of the cavern, and he realised he could retreat no further. They were hemmed in. The ghalls at the edge of the torchlight seemed to have multiplied, an audience of savage, lipless faces with masses of backward-slanting teeth for catching and ripping. There had to be two dozen at least, slipping from the water or clambering over the rocks like grotesque salamanders.
‘
Silo,’ he said. ‘Reckon we’re surrounded.’
Silo made a tutting noise. He jammed his torch into a gap in the rock behind them, freeing his other hand, then chambered a new round into his lever-action shotgun.
Frey took stock. Two bullets left in his first revolver. A full one in his belt, and the cutlass too. The need to hold the torch was a handicap, but he wouldn’t relinquish the light. Not for anything.
He spat on the ground. ‘I’d love to see the Iron Jackal’s face when he finds out I’m already dead,’ he said with half a grin. ‘Now that’s irony.’
‘No it ain’t, Cap’n. It’s just some shit that happened.’
‘That there is the best description of my life I ever heard,’ Frey said. ‘You do have a way of getting to the heart of things, old mate.’
Silo looked at him, as if surprised by such an expression of affection. Frey was surprised himself, but he didn’t think it mattered much now.
‘Good knowin’ you, Frey.’
Frey gave him a rueful smile. ‘Kinda wish we’d done it sooner, huh?’
Silo shrugged. ‘It’s how it is.’ He nodded at Frey’s pistol. ‘You savin’ a bullet for yourself?’
‘Nah.’
‘Me, either.’
One of the ghalls opened its jaws and made a long, low croak, which was taken up by the others. It rose and gathered until it became an unearthly screech, a primal battle-cry that rang through the cavern and pounded at their ears with its hideous discord.
Frey raised his revolver and shot the two ghalls nearest to him, just to shut them up.
As if that were a signal, the ghalls attacked. Silo’s shotgun boomed. Three of the creatures were caught in the blast, pulverised into a soggy mass of wrecked flesh. Frey dropped his pistol and reached for the other, but somehow his hand found the hilt of his cutlass instead, which had jumped of its own accord into his grip. It was a better idea than the pistol anyway, he reckoned, so he pulled it free. It swung out in a vicious arc towards a ghall that was springing through the air towards him, and halved the creature diagonally from collar to hip. One of the chunks thumped into Frey’s shoulder and spun off, but he was already into his next swing by then. The sword led his arm, and he could only do his best to go with it.