The Black Lung Captain (57 page)

But nothing could stop them.

Frey's pistol fired empty. No time to reload. He shoved it in his belt and drew his cutlass. He knew now they'd be overrun. The battle would go to close quarters.

Bring it on, then!

He was awash with adrenaline. His teeth were bared in a snarl. Al the anger and disappointment and hate that had been inspired by Trinica's betrayal sharpened in that moment to a fine point. It didn't matter whether he lived or died. It just mattered that somebody paid.

Some of the others drew weapons, ready for hand-to-hand fighting. Kedmund Drave puled out a huge two-handed sword. Others stuck to their shotguns or rifles. They'd use boots and gun butts to fend off the enemy long enough to get a point-blank shot in. To his right, Eldrew Grissom threw open his greatcoat, revealing an array of knives like the inside of a butcher's cupboard. He selected two gleaming cleavers.

'Choppin' time!' he yeled, with a crazed glint in his eye, and he went to work.

The Manes attacked al at once, jagged nails reaching out, mad faces behind them. Frey stepped to the fore, led by his cutlass. There was little he could do but surrender to its wil. He could almost hear the singing of the daemon within as it took control, slashing in broad arcs, dismembering this and severing that. For his part, he simply concentrated on not getting hurt.

But for al the efforts of Frey and his crew, it was the Knights who held the Manes back. They moved like quicksilver, slipping fluidly between positions, always where they were needed. Whenever two Manes tried to take on Frey at the same time, there would be a Knight at his side to assist him, or one of his enemies would go down with a bulet in the brain. Even Drave and Grudge, who were more cumbersome in their heavy armour, seemed untouchable. They didn't have the speed of their companions, but they anticipated every strike and moved to counter it before it came. The Manes couldn't match them.

For a time, Frey lost himself. Al thought disappeared in a bloody chaos of limbs and blades and teeth. His hands were spattered red. His breath rasped loud in his ears, heart pumping hard. His jaw clenched as he swung again and again, chopping away the grasping hands of the enemy. Fingernails raked his cheek. He found the owner, just as its head exploded, blown apart by somebody's shotgun.

When would it stop? When would they give up?

Behind him, he heard a cry. Crake. He risked a glance, and saw that one of the Manes had broken through. An awful, red-eyed, ragged thing. It had seized Crake's gun arm and was biting into the meat of his hand. Frey's blade came down on its neck. Crake staggered backwards, the thing's head stil clamped tight to his flesh.

Then suddenly Bess was back among them, drawn by her master's voice. She'd abandoned her post and was ploughing into the Manes from the rear, scooping them up and flinging them in al directions. The Manes faltered, looking over their shoulders. The Knights had no such hesitation, and took the advantage. They shot and cut at the creatures, driving them back, gaining a little space and a few precious seconds to regroup.

A piercing shriek sounded over the square, stiling them al. Even the Knights froze at the sound. Even Bess. They sensed something. A signal, perhaps. Frey wiped blood from his face and searched for the source.

There it was. A Mane, eight feet tal, the same height as Bess. This one was clad in belts and bands of black leather armour, criss-crossing its thin yelow body.

Buckles and straps hung from every part of it. Even its face was half-hidden by overlapping straps. What little could be seen of it was glowering, holow-eyed and fearful. It carried two long, thick chains, far heavier than a man could lift. They hung from bracelets on its wrists, and as Frey saw it, it swung one and lashed it through the air like a whip, and screeched a second time.

A leader, a general. Come to raly them, to lead the final charge.

But no. The Manes were stepping back now, retreating. Bess turned quizzicaly towards Crake, looking for direction. He was grey with pain, but he managed to hold out his good hand.
Stop. Don't do anything.

The Knights had the same idea. They stood ready, but nobody fired a shot. The Manes backed away, turned and ran out of the square the way they came. The general waited until they'd al passed and then stalked after them, without even a backward glance at the Knights, or the dozens of falen Manes that littered the flagstones of the square.

Frey sagged, and let out a trembling breath. They'd given up. Just like that. The cost of the fight was too high for them. He exchanged a glance of happy disbelief with Malvery. The doctor swung his shotgun up on his shoulder and whistled.

'S'pose we showed
them,
eh, Cap'n?' he said.

'I s'pose we did,' he said. 'Go see to Crake, wil you?'

'Right-o,' said Malvery. He went over to Crake, who'd flopped to the ground, holding the bloody head of the Mane in one hand. Its teeth were stil buried in the other. Yelow eyes glared at him malevolently over his knuckles.

'Ooo. Nasty,' said Malvery, as he squatted down.

Crake wasn't in the mood for smal talk. 'Get this damned horror off me,' he said.

Malvery puled out a length of bandage and some disinfectant salve from his inner pocket. 'This ought to hold you til we get back to the
Ketty Jay
.' He felt around the Mane's head with an expression of disgust until he got his fingers between its teeth. 'Now,' he said, 'this might hurt a shitload.'

Crake's yel of pain echoed off the wals of the austere banks and imposing merchant houses that overlooked the square. Samandra Bree, who was standing with Frey, winced in sympathy.

'Poor feler,' she said.

'He'l be okay. It's only his gun hand. He's a bloody disaster with a pistol.'

Crake noticed them looking at him and waved weakly to her. She waved back. 'Glad you're back, Grayther Crake,' she caled.

'Me too,' he said, though without much conviction.

'I notice you're missing one, though,' she said to Frey. 'Where's the blonde?'

Frey felt his mood curdle. 'She's gone,' he said.

'Oh,' said Samandra. 'My sympathies.'

'Yeah.' Frey checked his crew were alright, scanned the square, then looked into the sky, where the Navy and the dreadnoughts were battling. A Windblade went shrieking overhead in a death-plunge and crashed a dozen streets away. Screams and howls drifted over the city. Havoc was al around them, but this square was theirs. They were safe here for the moment. The Manes wouldn't come back.

'How'd you find us?' he asked, while he waited for Malvery to patch up Crake.

'Roke. We found him on the roof of the refinery. Good of you to leave him alive, by the way.'

'Hey, I'm a decent sort. We only needed a head start.'

'Wel, you got it. When we caught up with him we weren't in the mood to be patient any more.' She winked. 'And there weren't no one around to see.'

'So you left word for the Navy and headed here.'

'They turned up right after you left. Drave with 'em. We went ahead with Drave, and they came fast as they could after. Not fast enough, I guess.'

The other Knights were reloading, idling in defensive positions in case anyone else should try to surprise them. Kedmund Drave, perhaps hearing his name, came over and joined them. He was the leader of this little group, a man with brutal features and silver hair cropped tight to a scarred scalp. He wore a suit of dul crimson armour, moulded to the contours of his body, and a black cloak. He regarded Frey with an expression that suggested he hadn't forgotten that time when Frey had emptied a shotgun into his chest at point-blank range.

'Where's Grist?' Drave demanded. 'I assume he's responsible for al this?' He waved up at the clouded wound in the sky.

Frey pointed back in the direction they'd come, where the black rectangle of the
Storm Dog
was lifting up above the city.

'There,' he said. 'And he's got the sphere.'
And Trinica.

'Let me guess,' Drave said. 'You went ahead and tried to get it back yourself, instead of letting the Knights do it. Things went horribly wrong. Am I close?'

'No, you're pretty much dead on,' said Frey.

'You're turning out to be a wretched pain in my arse, Captain. I should arrest you al now and save you doing anything else stupid.'

'I think you've got bigger fish to fry right now, don't you? Protecting the citizens of Sakkan from a rabid mob of arctic ghouls, and al that?'

Drave gave him an iron stare. Frey stared back.

'Lucky for you that we do,' he said at length.

'I'l take what luck I can get these days,' Frey said, turning away. 'Malvery, are you done? We're out of here!'

Crake was on his feet now, his hand wrapped tight in bandages. He came over sheepishly and gave Samandra a little bow.

'Enchanted to see you again,' he said. 'I can only hope for better circumstances next time.'

She gave him a smile and touched the peak of her tricorn hat. 'Lookin' forward to it, Grayther Crake.'

'Alright, alright, you two can snuggle up later,' said Frey impatiently. He gave the Knights a quick salute. 'Good luck, you lot.'

'Same,' said Grissom. 'Get going.'

'Back to the
Ketty Jay!'
Frey caled, and they headed out of the square, with Crake looking over his shoulder every now and then until Samandra Bree was out of sight.

Thirty-Eight

Frey Plots A Course —

Bait And Ambush — The Stowaway

Frey ran into the cockpit of the
Ketty Jay
with Jez hot on his heels. Behind him, boots clattered in the passageway as the crew went to their stations. Silo was heading for the engine room. Malvery7 clambered noisily up the ladder to the autocannon cupola.

Crake drifted in as Frey and Jez raced through the pre-flights. He was holding his bandaged hand, looking forlorn and slightly useless. Malvery's patch-up job was sloppy, but proper medical attention would have to wait til later.

'Did you shut the cargo ramp behind you?' Frey asked. 'Don't want any Manes getting in.' He glanced at Jez, then added wryly, 'One's more than enough.'

Jez gave him a quick, humourless smile of acknowledgement. Frey wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Whatever she felt about shooting down al those Manes, it wasn't a matter to be taken lightly. She was cool, efficient, grim. That was how she coped, he reckoned. Burying herself in her task. She'd think about it al later.

Was that how people were supposed to deal with things, he wondered? Shutting them out, closing down? It had been Frey's method of choice up til now, but damned if it had done him a scrap of good.

'Jez. Come up here. See if you can spot Harkins.'

Harkins and the Firecrow had disappeared from the landing pad. With the earcuffs gone, he couldn't talk to them. They'd have to rely on the old-fashioned methods they used before Crake came aboard.

Jez left her station and joined him, peering out through the wind-glass at the jumble of fighters and frigates in the sky above. Tracer fire tracked across the black ceiling of cloud. Above it al, the great churning hole in the sky, flashing with its own private lightning.

He hit the aerium engines, flooded the tanks, and the
Ketty Jay
began to lift.

'You know, that vortex is going to stay open until the sphere is deactivated or destroyed,' said Crake. 'They're going to keep coming.'

Frey didn't need teling. He was wel aware that some of this was his fault. He'd helped Grist get his hands on that thing.

But he'd done his best to stop it, too. It wasn't as if he'd intended this. Those lives weren't on his shoulders. It wasn't his responsibility to save them. He was going to fly away and leave them to their fate. There was no sense in sharing it. Maybe his conscience wouldn't be exactly clean, but he could live with a certain level of grubbiness.

He spun the
Ketty Jay
slowly as she rose, giving Jez a panorama of the battle overhead.

'I see them!' she cried.

'Them?'

'Pinn's with him!'

Crake groaned. 'Realy?'

Pinn! Pinn was back! And that meant they were al here, the whole crew, for the the first time in what seemed for ever. Six men, one woman (kind of), a golem and a cat. With Pinn's return, the balance was restored. The crew that had been forged in the firefights and fiascos of Retribution Fals were together again. And suddenly it felt like anything was possible.

The corner of Frey's mouth curled up. 'Pinn,' he said. 'Wel, wel, wel.'

Jez clutched his shoulder and pointed. 'Cap'n! There!'

Her tone told him that she'd spotted something other than the pilots. He folowed the line of her finger, but saw only dreadnoughts, one sliding behind another.

An explosion rattled the cockpit, too distant to harm them. He looked again.

'The
Storm Dog,'
she said.

He could see it now. A smal black bar, angled steeply upwards, sliding like a slow blade through the chaos. It was ignored by Navy and Mane craft alike.

They're not trying to escape. Where are they heading?

He traced their path to its end. His face went slack.

'You must be joking,' he murmured.

They were heading for the vortex. And Trinica was on board.

Suddenly Frey couldn't breathe. It was as if an iron band was tightening around his chest.

On some level, he'd always believed that Trinica would be alright, that Grist would release her once her purpose was served. Once he'd got away there was no point in kiling her. Trinica was a survivor. She'd survive. If he hadn't thought that, he couldn't have left her in Grist's hands.

But now he was seized with an awful certainty. Grist would have kept her as a hostage until he was wel away from Frey. That meant she was on board the
Storm Dog.
Grist was taking her with him, to the place where the Manes came from. Trinica and the sphere. And they wouldn't be coming back.

She
wouldn't be coming back.

Ever.

Again.