Silo’s shotgun roared again and again, cutting swathes through the ghalls. They were soft-skinned and easily shredded, but they were fast and nimble and came from everywhere. Frey dodged and sliced and thrust, fending off the ghalls with his torch while his sword hand was busy. They feared the flames, but only enough to make them hop back a little and find a new place to strike.
Fresh corpses were sprawled among the old, bleeding over the bones. But more appeared, attacking randomly and without coordination, and more after that.
To Frey’s right, Silo fired again, and something clicked in his head. Five shells. He’s out.
‘Take my pistol!’ he snapped, sidestepping so Silo could reach it. Silo didn’t need telling twice. He dropped his shotgun and snatched the pistol from Frey’s belt, bringing it up in time to shoot another ghall that came springing out of the dark.
‘Come on then, you toothy little bastards!’ Frey yelled. He was suddenly angry. Rage was flooding in to fill the void that was left in the absence of fear. He was angry that he should die down here, angry that his life would be left so unfinished, angry at the bullshit set of circumstances that had condemned him to finish things in the dark. And by damn, he was gonna take it out on somebody.
Perhaps, in some dim way, they understood the challenge in his voice, because they came at him in numbers then, and Frey was glad of it. Let’s have this over with. Teeth gritted, he let the blade take him, hacking left and right as they scrabbled and sprang. He felt webbed hands scratching at his body, clawing his clothes, but he threw them aside and stabbed them, or shoved his torch in their faces. Everywhere he glimpsed movement, horrors swarming from the flickering shadows. But his cutlass knew its business, and drenched itself in the thin, salty blood of the ghalls.
Some automatic part of his mind had been counting the shots from his revolver, and he heard the last one ring out with a solemn finality. Something heavy knocked into Frey’s off-hand and sent the torch tipping from his grip. He reached after it, but in doing so he exposed his arm from behind the protection of his blade. One of the creatures appeared from nowhere, snatching at him with eager hands, jaws snapping. He pulled his arm hard out of the way, but not entirely: teeth slashed down his bicep in a sharp flood of pain before he flung the damned thing off and beheaded it.
He looked for his torch, but it had rolled away along the wet cavern floor. Its last light underlit a trio of fang-stuffed faces, like daemons out of some macabre children’s tale. Then the flame died, and he couldn’t see them any more.
Silo pulled down the torch that he’d jammed into the rock, and backed up against Frey. He had only a dagger in his other hand now. It was a pitiful defence against these monsters, but it was the only one they had left.
The ghalls drew back, perhaps sensing that their prey was weakening, perhaps fearing Frey’s blade. Silo and Frey, breathing hard, stood in their diminished island of torchlight, their faces and chests spattered with gore.
The battle was suspended for a few moments, but it was a few moments only. The ghalls still surrounded them. It was a temporary reprieve, and the end was inevitable as it ever was.
But then—
‘Is that light?’ Frey said.
It was light! Torchlight, illuminating the mouth of a tunnel on another wall of the cavern, that had been hidden in the blackness till now. Torchlight, and the sound of running feet, and—
‘Hey!’ Frey yelled, with a volume he didn’t know he possessed. ‘In here! In here!’
The ghalls turned their faces towards the new intruders. Voices were calling out in Murthian. The torchlight brightened and flared as they came into view, four, five, six of them, running into the cavern, weapons in their hands.
At their head was Ehri. She barked a command in Murthian and the newcomers opened fire. Rifles cracked and shotguns boomed. Someone threw out a phosphorous flare and furious white light swelled to fill the cavern.
Frey was horrified at what it revealed. The place was aswarm, infested with ghalls, racing about like cockroaches caught in the sudden glow of an electric bulb. It was a scene from one of the hells of the old pre-Awakener religions: prancing grotesques threw shadow-shapes against the walls of some terrible subterranean pit.
But despite the ghalls’ superior numbers, they were in disarray. The newcomers stormed into them and they fled, slipping through holes in the rock or sliding into the great black pool in the centre of the cavern. Frey hacked at the occasional ghall who strayed too close to him, but they were too busy trying to get away to pay him much mind now. They were just animals in the end, and the panic spread fast. In minutes, only dead ghalls remained within the range of the flare.
Frey let the tip of his bloody cutlass sink to the ground. He was unable to believe that he was still breathing. Dazedly he gathered up his pistols and put them in his belt, but the effort of standing up and the plummeting adrenaline in his body made his legs give way, and he would have fallen over if Silo hadn’t caught him and helped him up.
Once the ghalls were gone, Ehri hurried across the chamber, accompanied by the man Frey had seen her with before, who he assumed was her lover. They both embraced Silo with quick and rough hugs.
~ I wasn’t sure you would show, Silo said in Murthian.
~ I wasn’t sure you would be here when we did, Ehri replied.
~ Akkad will kill you all.
~ He won’t get the chance, said Ehri, her eyes hard. ~ Tonight we will finish what you started. Tonight we will end him.
Twenty-Seven
Insurgents – The Pact – A Lack of Inspiration – Ashua’s Price
Silo listened to the night sounds of the jungle as he watched the last of his rescuers step off the pulley. The warm, wet air brought back a flood of memories and feelings from a time long ago, when he’d been a more passionate man, when the world had been so simple. Black and white. Sammie and Murthian.
He’d slipped through this dark with a knife in his teeth. He’d prowled past guards beneath its cover. He’d seen it lit up with muzzle flashes, the chaos of a firefight. It had been a time of violence, a time of freedom. A time of certainties.
Ehri and Fal stood with him, Fal making roll-ups with his nimble fingers. Ehri was already smoking one. They were older now, but this was the same. This silent togetherness.
He looked over at the Cap’n. Frey was sitting up against a tree, his head bent forward and one hand on his neck. He’d had a rough time of it down there, Silo reckoned. He’d given up hope and got ready for death. Getting pulled back from the brink like that, it wasn’t easy to take. But he was stronger than he thought he was, Silo knew that much.
~ You were lucky, Ehri was saying. ~ We lost track of the marks you left in the dark. We had to follow the gunfire. That place is a maze.
~ You found us by a different way, said Silo. ~ But you came none too soon, and I am grateful.
Nearby, three young Murthians sat on the grass dejectedly, tied up and gagged. The scouts that had captured Silo and Frey on the outskirts of the camp, left as guards by Akkad. They’d always left guards in the past, in case friends or relatives attempted a rescue. But Ehri had brought many friends, and the guards had submitted without a fight.
Fal passed Silo a roll-up, and began working on one for himself. Silo lit it and motioned towards the prisoners.
~ What will you do with them?
~ Let them go, said Ehri. ~ After.
He looked at her in the leaf-choked moonlight.
~ We can either run or finish this, she said. ~ I will not run.
~ All this because of me?
She shook her head. ~ It was happening anyway. Tomorrow, next week, next month. We were ready. But your arrival has forced our hand.
Fal explained, his eyes on the tube of herbs and paper in his hands. ~ There are many who feel as we do, that Akkad has forgotten the plight of our fellow Murthians. He is no longer interested in freeing our imprisoned brothers and sisters. He wants only to hold what he has.
~ He
has become paranoid, said Ehri. ~ Every day he tightens his grip.
Silo drew on his roll-up, his thoughts dark. Akkad had been obsessed with disloyalty even before the failed revolt. Afterwards, he must have been many times worse.
~ This is not the same place you left, said Fal. ~ People are afraid. The ghalls have been fed too often. He sees traitors among the innocent, and so makes traitors of their relatives.
~ He’ll do anything to protect us, said Ehri bitterly. ~ Whether we want it or not.
She was harder than he remembered, and she was tough even then. But they were different times, when he and Fal had competed for her attention, and she’d been unable to choose between them.
The day he tried to usurp Akkad, Ehri had fallen ill, bitten by a snake. Fal had refused to leave her side. Silo had refused to wait for her to recover. There were too many pieces in place for that. Each of them decided in that moment what or who was most important to them. Ehri had come second best for Silo, but not for Fal. He hadn’t been surprised to find them married when he returned, each wearing the band of the other.
They’d made a pact, while planning their coup. If any of them were put into the warrens as traitors, the others would get them out. But in the end there were no ‘others’. The only able-bodied one of them was Fal, and he could scarcely save them all on his own. He and Ehri escaped retribution because they’d played no part in the coup, and their names were never mentioned. Silo himself was long gone, having fled for his life.
He hadn’t been sure Ehri and Fal would remember the pact. Hadn’t even been sure if they’d been the ones who tipped off Akkad to the plan. The snakebite had been a suspiciously convenient get-out for both of them. But that was an unworthy thought, and he’d never truly believed it. The Ehri he knew would have been torn with guilt at not being there when it counted, and she would have done anything to make it up. As for Fal, he went where she did, as always.
He watched the others checking their weapons and making ready. They were well-drilled and purposeful. Among them was the Vard that Silo had seen standing at Akkad’s side in his hut. His name was Griffden. The rot in Akkad’s world had gone deep, it seemed.
~ How will you do it? he asked.
Fal lit his own roll-up. His fingers were finally still as he breathed in the smoke. ~ Last time we were betrayed. This time we won’t be. He suspects nothing. He only has four guards on his hut, and two of them are ours.
~ And you? asked Ehri, dropping her roll-up to the ground and grinding it out.
He caught the tension in her tone, and guessed at its cause. She was the driving force behind this uprising. He should have seen it immediately; it could only be her. She might have been glad to have him back, but his unexpected return threatened her. This was her rebellion.
~ I need a map, he said.
~ We heard. You’re looking for Gagriisk.
~ And when you have it? Fal prompted.
~ Cap’n needs me.
~ We need you! Fal protested, aghast. ~ You’re a legend in this camp. You’re everything Akkad isn’t. He won’t even let us raid Sammie camps for the medical supplies we need! But you, you’re ruthless.
~ He’s right, said Ehri, though her voice was tight and her eyes flinty. ~ After we’re done with Akkad, if you were with us, they’d unite behind you. People remember what you tried to do.
~ I’m no leader, said Silo.
~ No, said Ehri. ~ But I am. And I would have you on my side in this. They’ll follow you.
Silo sucked on the last of his roll-up, hard enough to make his throat burn, then spat in his hand, docked it out and put it in his pocket. An old habit. Leaving smoking dog-ends around the jungle was a sure way to let an enemy know you were near. ~ They followed me once. I won’t bear that burden again.
Ehri had taken a step away from him. Something was dawning on her face. Something ugly behind her eyes.
~ You didn’t come back for us, did you?
~ No, said Silo. He indicated Frey. ~ I came back for him.
~ A Vard? she sneered.
~ A friend. An old friend.
~ Older than us? Fal said in disbelief.
Ehri had turned her face away from Silo. She radiated disappointment. He hadn’t come back to reclaim his place. Hadn’t come to inspire anyone. He’d come for a map, and then he was going to leave. Turn his back on his people for the second time. Turn his back on the cause.
~ Why are you looking for Gagriisk? she said, her voice distant and unfriendly in the warm murk of the night.
~ To free a prisoner.
~ A Murthian?
~ A Yort.
Ehri spat on the ground. ~ What happened to you, Silo?
~ I tried and failed.
~ You tried and gave up, she said venomously. She could scarcely disguise her scorn now.
~ Ehri . . . said Fal, ever the peacemaker. He reached out to touch her, but she shrugged him off angrily.
~ You promised Akkad medical supplies and food, she told Silo. ~ Deliver them, and you’ll have your map.
~ That’s fair, said Silo.
She crossed her arms. ~ You have transport? For fifty?
~ They’ll fit.
~ Ehri! said Fal. ~ Gagriisk? You can’t be serious.
~ That place has been a byword for the murder of Murthians since we were born, she snapped, rounding on her husband. ~ There are hundreds of our brothers and sisters being worked to death there right now!
Fal was hurt, his delicate features drawing together into hard lines. ~ And you want to attack it?
~ Yes! And every free Murthian will hear of it. It’s exactly what we need to get the young men behind us. To show them that things will be different after Akkad.
Fal shook his head. ~ It’s suicide.
She glared at Silo. ~ It’s what Silo would have done.
Silo looked down at the ground and nodded to himself. He deserved all the ire she directed at him.
~ We don’t need you, she told him. ~ Take your captain. Go back to your craft. By dawn, this will all be over.
~ What about Akkad? he asked. ~ What will you do with him?
~ That’s not your concern. You’re no part of this.
Silo turned away. ~ Time is a factor. I hope to be back tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. Be ready.
He walked over to Frey. Behind him, he could hear Ehri organising her people. They would sneak back to the camp, and do what had to be done. Silo’s path led in another direction.
Frey looked up as he approached, then past him, noticing the activity. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
It took Silo a moment to switch his brain back to Vardic. ‘Tell you on the way back,’ he said.
‘We’re not going with them?’
‘Nuh,’ he said.
Frey reached out an arm and Silo helped him up. Frey frowned. ‘You alright?’
‘I’m good, Cap’n,’ he said.
Frey let it drop, and Silo was grateful for that. He wondered then if the reason he’d stayed with this man for so long was not because he had nowhere else to go, or because he feared to come home, but because deep down he believed Frey would understand him if his past ever came to light. Maybe Frey was the only man who could.
The day he’d found Frey dying in the crashed Ketty Jay, he’d also found the body of a young Dak boy in the hold, shot dead, with a rifle nearby and a bloody bayonet affixed. Since there were no other crew on board, it didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened.
They’d both failed as leaders, and they both knew it now, even if neither had ever spoken of it. Their reactions to tragedy had been different, though. Silo chose never to lead again, thinking himself unworthy to decide anything for anyone. Frey carried on being a captain, on the condition that he didn’t have to care.
But time had made him care. Time, and the things they’d been through since Retribution Falls. And now the weight of expectation was crushing him. Silo saw how it killed the Cap’n to be dragging them through his probl
ems, making them atone for his mistake. It would shatter him if one of them died for his sake.
He wished he had the words to convince the Cap’n that his crew were behind him. That it didn’t matter whether it was his problem or everyone’s: they were in it together. But he didn’t think he could. He didn’t have the right to give advice about leadership. Not any more.
Nine years passive. Nine years a slave of his own making. And now here he was, full circle, a lesser man than when he started.
That didn’t sit right with him. Didn’t sit right at all.
Pinn was frustrated.
He sat on the dirty metal floor of the quarters he shared with Harkins. His little Samarlan gewgaw lay in front of him, on top of several sheets of paper covered in crude diagrams. The damned thing had broken two days after he bought it, and now the clockwork bird sat motionless in its cage, its cheeping forever quieted. But it was still a thing of beauty, a mysterious masterpiece forged by craftsmen who possessed a skill just short of sorcery. And it was most definitely not, as Malvery had repeatedly claimed, ‘just a knackered old rip-off piece of junk.’
Harkins was asleep in the lower bunk, twitching violently, as if he dreamed of being mauled by something horrible. Pinn was glad of the peace. Harkins hated him working in the room, and he’d complained about everything: about the light being on, about the noise of Pinn’s pen scratching, about Pinn’s loud and noxious farts which caused him to gag and which made his vision go dim. But this was Pinn’s inventing space, so Harkins had been forced to put up with it, until he was finally overpowered by the meaty fumes from Pinn’s arse and slipped into unconsciousness.
Pinn knew he had it in him to be a great inventor. He knew it because he reckoned himself great at everything he turned his hand to. Maybe he didn’t know how to make those fiddly little trinkets that the Sammies did, but that was okay. He was an ideas man.
It was just that he wasn’t having any ideas.