Chapter 42 #6
Arissa smiles. ‘You’re getting the hang of this.’ She glances to Shipwright, ‘You going to be OK?’
Shipwright nods.
‘Sure. Just not used to’ – she waves a hand – ‘all of this.’
Shroudweaver laughs. ‘Me neither.’
Arissa snorts. ‘You don’t get used to it. You just win it. Otherwise, it happens to you. Mount up.’
They do, the horses picking their way over the remains, stepping carefully around twisted bodies.
Teams pull Hesper’s wounded back towards the boats, cutters already at work. There will be time for the dead later.
Ships’ surgeons stalk the battlefield, grim-faced as gargoyles, shepherded by burly men and women moving four-cornered, bows and eyes roving warily.
Shroudweaver watches them. ‘Can you do anything for them Shipwright? With the spinners?’
She thinks. ‘Possibly, one or two. But I’d need one or two per person. Unless you can pull that trick again.’ She flexes her red, stripped fingers. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘I need you both here,’ Arissa calls over her shoulder. ‘Otherwise none of us are getting out of this alive.’
Shipwright shoots Shroudweaver a glance, and he presses his lips tight.
A few clipped shouts and the trumpets pick up a different rhythm. The marines jog towards the walls, some teams with ladders, others with long, whip-thin poles. There’s clearer ground before the wall, beyond those outlying ruins.
Here had been the fairground. The feast of Dreaming Flowers. Here the heralds had sung for the great and good of the city.
The ground was churned to mud by dead feet.
The army forms up before the walls, shields raised and cautious. Not too badly hit at all, despite the ferocity of the fighting. Maybe forty, fifty down.
The horses sidestep, whinny. Something rank in the air still, beneath the obvious horror of the city.
Shroudweaver tries to quest out along the threads, but everything’s a mess. Battlefields always were, somehow. Too many fractured little deaths. This one was worse than most, though.
As his horse resettles its hooves they crunch down through a mouldered breastplate, worn paper thin by the years. The mace held in the withered hand is like no design he’s ever seen, green as a bird’s egg, smooth as its shell.
He reaches down, pries it loose, hefting it experimentally. The haft is made of some dark wood, worked as smooth as the head.
He catches Shipwright eyeing him. ‘You’re an odd fish, aren’t you?’
Smiles sheepishly, feeling a flush scorch his cheeks. ‘Just a curious one.’
She laughs. ‘The fish bit is supposed to be the problem.’
‘Oh.’ The mace suddenly a little slick in his sweating palm.
She rides a little closer, and elbows him in the ribs. ‘We’ll work on it.’
Within minutes the army is arrayed, the ships’ captains striding the front like peacocks, crowing exhortations to blood and infamy, with a side of bribery. Teeth gleaming, hats trimmed with feathers, and helms tooled with designs of the deep.
Luss itself is quiet, aside from the odd creak of a settling building, or the rattle of stone.
The only quick way in is through the great gates, hewn from gilded whalebone but lying half-fallen now, aslant each other like loose teeth in a spinster’s mouth.
Beyond that, the walls were a tough climb, still strong on the sea-facing side.
According to the scouts, it was only on the inland approach that those vast slabs had caved inwards, as if pushed by a great weight.
A shiver runs down his spine.
‘Thoughts, Shroudweaver?’ Arissa says.
‘I’m not a military man, my Lady.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘So what? I’m rolling in those. I want your thoughts.’
Shipwright laughs. ‘You sure?’
Arissa shoots her a look. ‘Yours too.’
His gaze flits between the two of them. ‘I can’t sense anything much, but that’s no surprise. We know they’re in there somewhere. Which means they want to draw us in.’
‘Which means they’ve got something else up their sleeve,’ Shipwright finishes.
He nods. ‘Quite. But then, so do we.’
Arissa twists her lips sourly. ‘Assuming your voice on the wind is to be believed.’ She waggles her fingers meaningfully.
‘That’s not helpful, Arissa. But I trust them. I’ve never known a magic like it. And the Emperor doesn’t seem to be one for guile.’
She nods slowly, reaches up to scratch under her helm. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Shroudweaver feels her eyes on him, a twist of fear in his gut. ‘If it were me, and I’m not saying it is, I’d draw the tooth. The two of us are enough to punch through and scout the first street or two. And we can get out quickly if they’re waiting.’
Arissa looks sceptical. ‘Unless they’ve got something we’re not prepared for.’
Shroudweaver looks at Shipwright. ‘They’re not prepared for us, my Lady, And, respectfully, this is why you brought us along.’
She looks at him, a faint quirk of her lips. ‘They train you well at the Aestering, don’t they?’
He dips his head. ‘Tolerably.’ Turns to Shipwright, ‘You ready for this?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, but I’ll do it. Let’s not take the horses though. And give us twenty men. I’m good, but I don’t want keeping you alive just on my back.’
Arissa nods. ‘Done. Brimlicker’s crew will go with you. They’re the worst pack of street dogs I’ve ever met.’
She motions a captain over, a tall woman with a ridiculous hat, and a pair of daggers that sit easily on her hips. Her crew follow her, low-browed and bright-eyed, rolling their shoulders and hips.
Arissa points at the pair. ‘Brim, don’t let these two die.’
Brimlicker’s eyes rove over them and she adjusts her belt. ‘You got it, lady.’
She steps aside as they dismount. ‘Nice to meet you. How do you want to play this?’
Shipwright looks at Shroudweaver. ‘Stay behind me.’
He nods.
She turns to Brimlicker. ‘Boarding speed, we don’t go deeper than a couple of hundred yards, anything less than us that gets in our way, we put it down hard. He’s there to take care of anything worse.’
Brimlicker nods, teeth flashing. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’
Shipwright shakes her head as they start advancing on the gates, ‘Not really.’
Brimlicker pats her shoulder, ‘Relax, new captain. I’ll buy you a drink after. Never been in a battle that killed me.’
Within minutes they’re under the shadow of the pillars, their angles impossibly large, glimpses of bone sheared through the torn metal.
The gates open out into a plaza scoured with dust and swirling wind.
Shroudweaver feels the dead then, in the buildings, alongside the barest flicker of breath. There must be some living soldiers in there too.
He gestures to two houses on the left. ‘Troops, waiting.’
Shipwright’s voice is low in the drifting ash. ‘OK. Follow me.’
They snake to the wall side of the first building. She turns to Brimlicker. ‘When this comes down, go in hard.’
The pirate looks puzzled. ‘What do you—?’
Shipwright’s hands fly out, a spinner in each. The wall in front cracks, whines, and vaporises. She dives in.
To their credit, Brimlicker and her crew follow hot on her heels.
The contingent of soldiers inside is watching the entrances. They turn, but not fast enough.
Shipwright catches a dead man’s skull between her fists, the bones vibrating to shards as she brings her hands together.
A dagger leaves Brimlicker’s hand as she crouches low to take one soldier in the throat, before she ducks beneath the spray to stab another under the ribs.
As the rest of her crew engages, Shroudweaver hangs back, trying to pick up some shiver of the Empire’s army.
A dead thing swings for his face, another one of those beautiful maces a hairsbreadth from his nose. Absently, he flicks out with the red threads. Pulls its soul from it and binds it to the fingers of his right hand.
The empty flesh totters, wobbles and falls.
As Shroudweaver steps back, arms wrap around him from behind, leathery and thick. He struggles, ducks forwards to shuck them off, but the grip is strong, fingers working their way to his windpipe. Heart hammering. Panic rising in his chest.
The body holding him rocks once, and goes slack.
He turns to watch it slide to the floor, one of Brimlicker’s daggers stuck in its skull.
‘Don’t get relaxed, Shroudweaver,’ she smiles, pulling it free with a twisting crunch. ‘Relaxed will kill you.’
He nods. ‘Thanks.’
She’s already gone, helping finish off the last few stragglers.
A good first move, all in all, no one down.
A couple of nasty wounds, but light and messy rather than fatal.
Brimlicker pats one of the injured men on the shoulder and grins.
‘Maybe get some good scars out of that. You might finally get laid.’
Shipwright strolls across to Shroudweaver and sits down on a chunk of broken masonry. She dusts her hands and begins rebinding their straps. ‘Well, we’ve made it this far.’
He smiles. ‘You’re very casual about this.’
She shrugs, ‘I’ll panic later. I like to bottle things up. Saves time.’
He rests a hand briefly on her shoulder, and she leans her head against his wrist. The touch shocks him, but he fights the reflex to pull back.
‘There should be more of them. That was a … lot of dead people.’
She nods. ‘Well, they’re either in here somewhere, or they’ve left the city.’
He chews his lip nervously. ‘Doesn’t seem like their style.’
She frowns, ‘Do we even know what their style is?’
He toes the ancient body at his feet. Remembers the feel of its fingers on his bruised throat. ‘No.’
‘I suppose it’s clear enough to signal some backup.’ She calls out to Brimlicker. ‘Captain, can you do the honours?’
The flare that arcs out over the square is red, actinic.
Shroudweaver watches it flame, letting the purple spots kiss the back of eyelids as he closes them for a moment. ‘I suppose they’ll come now.’
Brimlicker nods. ‘We’ll keep watch.’
Shipwright glances across at Shroudweaver. ‘Are you OK? Your hands are shaking.’
He tucks his hands into his robes. ‘It’s nothing.’
She frowns. ‘Were you always this bad a liar?’
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’