It’s not my responsibility, he thought. Then, with gritted teeth, he hit the dashboard with his fist. ‘It’s not my responsibility!’
Silo, standing by, said nothing.
But the crack that Pinn had made in his shell of denial was widening. Everything he’d stuffed inside came spilling out in a flood, filling him with breathless hope, panic, joy and resentment. He wanted to burst into tears; he wanted to kill somebody; he wanted to dance and rage all at the same time.
Was loving Trinica worth his death? Would a life not loving her be worth anything? Everything, everything rested on him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to force him to a choice like that.
‘Do you think we can do it, Silo?’ he said quietly.
Silo could not have heard half the conversation that he’d had with Pinn and Harkins, but it didn’t matter. He knew what Frey was talking about.
Frey waited. If he detected even a hint of doubt, the merest shred of uncertainty, then he was determined to hit the throttle and never look back. If he thought the man at his side had anything less than absolute faith, it wouldn’t be enough to give him the courage he needed to do this. It wasn’t the danger that frightened him; he’d faced danger plenty. It was the thought of getting back on the horse that had thrown him. It was the possibility of failure.
‘Cap’n,’ said Silo at length. ‘I known you a long time now. And I ain’t never met nobody so good at screwin’ up a winnin’ hand as you are.’
Frey blinked. He hadn’t expected that.
‘But I also ain’t never met nobody so good at turnin’ a losin’ hand to winnin’,’ Silo continued. ‘You took this crew o’ outcasts and misfits, people who didn’t have no place in the world, and you made us into somethin’. Don’t you remember, Cap’n? We took down the Awakeners once already, back at Retribution Falls. Saved the Archduke’s hide that time.’ His voice became unexpectedly passionate as he went on; it wasn’t something Frey was used to hearing from his first mate. ‘We took on the Manes, Cap’n! We flew behind the Wrack and we looked ’em in the eye and we came back to tell about it. And after that, what d’you reckon we did? This team o’ alcoholics and layabouts and shit knows what else that you pulled together? We found a damn Azryx city right in the heart of Samarla! We saw a Juggernaut! And what we brought back, it pretty much set off this whole war they all fightin’ back there! None of us weren’t nothin’ on our own, but ’cause of you, we shook the damn world!’
He put his hand on Frey’s shoulder. Frey felt the warm strength of it through his coat.
‘We a losin’ hand, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘But you the Ace of Skulls. Anyone can turn us to winnin’, you can.’
Frey stared out through the windglass a long time. His face was grim, but there was something new in his eyes. Something that hadn’t been there since they’d left the Awakener camp in the Barabac Delta.
Determination. Cold, hard purpose.
‘Reckon some things are worth risking everything for,’ said Frey.
‘You damn right about that,’ said Silo, as Frey began to turn the Ketty Jay around.
Forty
The Root of Courage – The Gate – An Unsung Hero – Orders – New Arrivals
‘The gate! They’ve opened the gate!’
The cry echoed along the streets, punctuated by gunfire. The narrow lanes and courtyards which surrounded the Archduke’s palace were aswarm with men and things other than men. Massive shapes lunged through the rain, metal limbs screeching. Frigates hung close overhead, their enormous hulls filling the grey sky, trailing ropes like catfish tendrils. They wouldn’t bomb the palace; its contents were too valuable. But they could drop Sentinels behind the defenders’ positions.
‘This way!’ someone shouted, and the Coalition soldiers surged in that direction. Crake hurried along an alley with men jostling him on either side. The world seemed to have become very small. He was surrounded by a tiny bubble of reality; beyond it, everything was muffled and suspect. Samandra, Malvery and Ashua appeared at his side now and then, but he’d lose them just as quickly in the tide of soldiers. He spotted Grudge more often, and sometimes Celerity Blane, her blonde ringlets sodden, eyes narrow in a leonine face.
Gunfire pulled him up short at the corner. He pressed himself against the wet stone and peered round into a courtyard. Sentinels were dug in at one end, shooting out from behind a statue of Kendrick Arken, the first of the Archdukes. More of them were pouring in through an arch. The Century Knights didn’t break stride; they raced out into the courtyard, heading for cover of their own. He saw his lover running, rolling, coming up with shotguns blasting. He saw Celerity Blane, astonishingly fast, rotary pistols chattering as they ate up bullets from her gunbelt. Colden Grudge came last with his great autocannon booming, tearing holes through the charging mob.
He wanted to be brave. He wanted to run out there, to fight by Samandra’s side, to protect her. But something had rooted him to the corner. He couldn’t go out into the open with all those bullets flying about. He wasn’t a fighter, not this way. That was her department.
He looked over his shoulder, alerted by the thump and clank of a golem. Not Bess, though. This golem was larger even than her, a hulking armoured brute all rivets and plates. Its head was small and oval and smooth, without mouth or nose or ears. Mechanical eyes glared out from beneath a brow that had been fashioned in a menacing scowl.
It stamped past him, followed by another, and charged into the courtyard, heedless of the bullets. One of the golems headed for the archway, the other for the men behind the statue. The Awakeners tried to run, but the golems ploughed into them like cannonballs. Bones cracked beneath their huge flat feet; they shattered men left and right with their enormous fists. The leg of the statue was smashed away by one wild swing, and the stern figure of Kendrick Arken toppled to the ground in pieces. By the time the dust cleared, the Awakeners had fled.
Malvery came up next to him and gave him a hefty nudge with his elbow. ‘You alright, mate?’
‘Yes,’ said Crake. ‘It’s just . . .’ He waved out at the courtyard. ‘All this.’
‘I know,’ said Malvery. ‘Stick it out, eh? We’ll drive ’em off with those golems on our side.’
‘And then what?’ Crake asked. ‘What do we do then?’
Malvery’s face was serious. ‘That don’t matter,’ he said. ‘Just do what you can.’
The crump and rumble of distant explosions could still be heard over the thunder and hissing rain. The ground trembled whenever a particularly big bomb hit. Even up on this crag, high above the city, they could feel Thesk’s death throes through their soles.
Yes, he thought. Just do what you can.
He was frightened, and not only for himself. They could beat back the invaders from the palace, but they couldn’t do it forever. Not with those frigates overhead. The Awakeners could land troops on top of them all day, and if the resistance proved too much, they’d simply forget about preserving Thesk’s seat of power and start bombing. They’d annihilate the golems and bring down the walls.
Don’t think about that. Think about now.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t have his crewmates’ ability to ignore consequences and live in the moment. He’d often envied them that. They were so blithe in the face of danger.
Was that the root of courage? The art of forgetting what you’d lose if you failed?
Bess caught up with them, shambling to a halt nearby. She was dragging a dead Sentinel by his leg like a little girl with a doll. The Sentinel’s head was dented on one side, the face aghast and purple.
‘Put that down, Bess,’ Crake said, faintly nauseated. Bess ignored him, her attention on the golems in the courtyard. She seemed bashful and subdued in their presence. They intimidated her.
Ashua hurried up, scrawny and soaked. She’d been off dealing with Awakeners in the streets behind them. The battle there was done, but only temporarily. No matter how hard they tried to drive the Awakeners out, more of them landed. Many of the
Coalition troops had been held back to protect the palace, where the Archduke sheltered. The rest were out to make sure the Awakeners couldn’t bring their ground forces through the streets and up to the palace doors.
‘If they get a steady route up the road from the city, they can bring in armoured vehicles and rot knows what else,’ Malvery growled. He slapped Crake on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Still fightin’ to be done yet.’
They hastened across the courtyard, following the others towards the gate which guarded the streets on the crag top. The Century Knights led the way. Samandra found Crake with her gaze before she disappeared through the arch. He would have liked her by his side, but he understood. She had a job to do. Matters here were too important to let herself be distracted by babysitting.
The fighting around the gate was fierce. A narrow road ran through the arch, lined with stables and shops on either side. Watchtowers stood there, and the battle was thickest near their base. A mob of Awakeners were trying to force their way up the road, driving ahead by sheer weight of numbers. Gun muzzles flashed; the air was punched with pistol reports; men screamed.
An Awakener gunship hovered overhead, seeking a clear shot at the Coalition forces. More Century Knights were here: Eldrew Grissom, his duster whirling about him and his knives flashing; Graniel Thrate, the Sledgehammer. Golems weighed in, dashing men against the walls. Bess went with them, disregarding Crake’s command to stay. The lure of the fight was too much for her.
Crake stayed close to the buildings and hurried up the street in short bursts. His palm was sweaty on his pistol grip. Ashua was close behind him. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he felt about that. His head told him that she wasn’t to be trusted, that she might well be on the side of the enemy. But it was hard for him to hate someone who’d so recently been a friend. There was too much empathy in him, too much capacity for self-doubt.
Besides, he had bigger things to worry about right now.
A pair of Sentinels appeared at the mouth of an alley behind them, a little way up the street. It was only because Crake was looking back at Ashua that he spotted them. He cried out a warning, thrust out his gun and fired three shots. Two window panes exploded and a nearby door jamb suffered a grievous wound. Other Coalition soldiers took care of the flesh-and-blood opponents.
‘When this is done, I’m gonna teach you how to shoot that thing,’ Ashua muttered, slipping past him to take the lead.
Crake felt himself flushing angrily. He’d take that from Malvery, but it didn’t seem right to be disparaged by someone so recently accused of treachery. He’d expected a little more humility from someone who wanted to get back in his good books; but then, humility wasn’t exactly Ashua’s style.
There was a whine of engines as the gunship overhead adjusted itself, and then a rapid tattoo of cannon fire. Glass smashed, stone puffed, wood splintered as the street was strafed. A few Coalition soldiers, unlucky enough to be out of cover, danced and jerked as they were hit. One of the Coalition golems, undoubtedly the intended target, came apart in a screech of metal, and was left in a ruined, twisted pile on the cobbles.
Crake pressed himself back against the wall and covered his ears. He’d been in gunfights before, but even Sakkan hadn’t been like this. The noise and movement and terror were overwhelming.
Then: a loud thump-thump-thump. An autocannon. The gunship’s prow exploded, and the mutilated remainder slewed away to crash into a nearby rooftop. Men scattered as the building slumped into the street in a landslide of bricks and slate. Dust billowed up, a great cloud obscuring the gate.
Malvery roared with laughter. ‘Seems they didn’t get the memo about Grudge!’ he cried. Passing soldiers smiled at that as they went racing down towards the gate, taking advantage of the cover provided by the dust cloud. Crake looked for Bess and couldn’t find her. He applied himself to reloading his revolver while he had a moment’s grace.
He was still bent over, slotting in the last of the bullets, when the horror came upon him.
Oh, no, he thought. They’re here.
The gunfire stuttered into silence. Faces turned from grim determination to abject fear. Malvery, normally so stout-hearted, began to back away, whimpering. Ashua hunkered down into a ball and clung on to herself.
Crake’s hand went to his chest. Against his skin he felt the chill touch of the metal amulet. One of the devices that he and Kyne had crafted to negate the power of the Imperators.
It doesn’t work, he thought, as panic clutched at him. It doesn’t work!
His legs went weak and he staggered. He put out a hand to steady himself, but his knees gave way. The weight of his failure took him down to the ground. All that they’d risked at the Tarlock mansion, the death of Jez and Pelaru, the Cap’n’s dreams of saving his lover – all of it was worthless. The knowledge they’d gained of the Imperators meant nothing. Because the amulets didn’t work.
In the dust cloud, something moved. A booted foot splashed into a puddle. Out of the rain and the swirling murk, a figure emerged, masked and cloaked, clad head to toe in black.
A golem thundered up the street towards the Imperator. He raised a gloved hand and the golem seized up and went crashing down in a heap.
We can’t fight them. Not the Imperators. We can’t win against them!
Crake spotted Samandra, on the other side of the street, pressed up against the wall where she’d scrambled. She was just visible on the edge of the settling dust, her face distorted in fright. The sight of that struck at him deeply. Those features should never be twisted that way, those eyes never so wide and so afraid. She was so strong and capable, stronger than him; to see her made helpless was an injustice against decency.
The amulet against Crake’s chest was cold. Cold as ice. In fact, his whole body was going cold.
Just like it did when he used his tooth. Because the daemon was leaching his vitality.
Because the amulet was working.
From somewhere, he found strength. This fear was not supernatural. It was just that it was so potent he’d mistaken it for the Imperator’s influence. No, this fear was honest and human, and it could be overcome.
His eyes fixed on Samandra, he gritted his teeth and willed himself to move. The effort was enormous, the distance insurmountable. But somehow, he got up from his knees, and he stood.
The Imperator turned its head slowly towards him, fixing him with its dreadful gaze. He put one foot in front of him, and then another. His throat was dry; his muscles trembled. It was like fighting against a current. But he came on, walking out into the street. Walking towards the Imperator.
The dust cloud was dispersing now, washed down by the rain. Behind the first Imperator, he saw a second one emerging. And behind that one were the Awakeners, a hundred troops with their guns, waiting for the cloud to clear so they could be sure their enemies had been subdued. So they could begin executing their helpless opponents.
The Imperator reached down to his belt and drew out a long black knife. He strode towards Crake with murderously efficient purpose, his sodden cloak flapping around him. The sight of that dark figure bearing down on him, the knowledge that he had seconds to live, almost rendered Crake immobile with fear.
Almost.
His arm leaden, his senses muffled, he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the silence.
The Imperator jerked and stopped mid-stride. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he staggered back a step, and looked down at the small hole in his chest. It wasn’t bleeding.
When the Imperator looked up again, Crake had the gun aimed point-blank at his forehead. He pulled the trigger again. The Imperator’s head whiplashed back and he crumpled to the ground.
Crake breathed in, breathed out, and felt his fear turn to bitter and triumphant hatred. Then he turned hard eyes on the second Imperator, and went stalking across the street towards him.
Crake had never seen an Imperator display uncertainty before. His enemy looked around for help, dre
w his knife, held it without conviction. They relied so heavily on their fear-inducing powers that they had no other way to fight, and here was someone the Imperator had no power to affect. Crake felt his confidence rising with every step. He’d killed two Imperators now, three if he counted the one that died in the summoning circle. Usually he was a man with a surplus of conscience, but not where these creatures were concerned. They were less than animals to him. He found great satisfaction in exterminating them.
The Imperator lunged, but not at Crake. He darted to the side of the road, seized Samandra by the wrist, pulled her roughly to her feet. In a moment, he had his arm round her neck, her body held before him as a shield, the point of his knife against her nape.
Crake stopped dead. The Imperator glared at him, only his head and arm visible behind Samandra. He had no tongue to speak, but his intention was clear. Come closer, and I’ll kill her. Five metres separated them: too far to reach her before he drove the knife home. Samandra whimpered, limp and unresisting, her courage destroyed by the Imperator’s influence.
Crake’s world had seemed close and confined during the fight; now it narrowed to a single moment. He was aware of many things: the pulse at Samandra’s throat; the beating of his own heart; the falling rain and the Imperator’s birdlike, yellow-irised eyes. And he knew that the dust cloud had become little more than a haze, and that Sentinels were already squinting through, wondering who the figure in the middle of the street was. They’d aim their guns and shoot, and he’d fall, and it would all be over.
Unless.
Crake was a meticulous man, a thoughtful man, a man who considered consequences and disdained recklessness. But in that instant, he knew what it was to be like the Cap’n, or Pinn, or even Malvery. To know nothing of the future, to spurn it entirely, to be as careless and instinctive as an animal. To simply do, and nothing more.
The Ace of Skulls Page 47
