Chapter 38 No Chances
No Chances
The only thing that mattered was keeping the sarnaki and lunn’yie bottlenecked, for the molting shoggoth and larger kthul could not swarm onto the bridge; there was precious little room even for jana-spiders with the stacked nthlei and moonhound corpses providing him some further measure of cover.
Which was rotting swiftly, and Nigel was on his last bullet.
One of the sarnaki howled, blue eyes snuffed as it contorted, fell forward. A haggard, familiar face rose over its crumpled, already-crumbling corpse; Edward plunged a scavenged spear-shard into the side of another bleach-skinned, four-armed lunn’yie before pitching forward, wading through the gap.
Less than a heartbeat to decide whether to trust this aid, and a single twitch could have sent his blade shearing through a fellow Son’s neck.
Pitiless glare broke over the bridge, cold smoke-laced wind suddenly rising to a screech.
Columns of bright white light speared downward, heavy thuds shaking the structure.
The decision was made almost before he registered it, for Edward’s eyes were dark suffering holes, no solid corpseglow showing the god’s attention.
Not even bright blue pinpricks to denote high emotion shone in his pupils.
The Elder pitched sideways, sending the ivory splinter in his other hand through the neck of a gibbering sarnaki.
Of course, they must have taken his guns. Nigel’s own pistol leveled. The lad stared at him as he crumpled to one knee, gaunt body finally failing under demands well past mortal bearing. Edward’s expression was familiar—mute resignation, with an odd hint of relief.
He expected to be shot by his own Father, for in defense of a lirai a combat-crazed Son would take no chances.
The surf-roar of battle had changed, just how Nigel could not at the moment define. He squeezed the trigger.
Boom.
His last bullet shattered the skull of another sarnaki throwing itself upon his Elder’s back.
It was the wrong choice, of course, because as recoil jolted up his arm and his blade clove through a leaping jana-spider, two more of the Great Liars—nowadays the god’s most faithful and best-beloved servants, the Sons’ imperfect replacements—pressed forward through the dripping flood of rot and spilled ichor, and one buried its spear in Nigel’s abdomen.
The other spear’s point rammed into his chest.
* * *
The world turned over. The cold white glare filled his eyes, his skull, his bones; he struggled to get up, to fight, to hold at least this small piece of ground. A beautiful cracked voice was calling his name, over and over.
“Nigel… Nigel don’t you dare…”