The Black Lung Captain totkj-2 Page 12

  Lucky shot, thought Frey. Lucky dodge. Lucky all round, really.

  Hodd was staring at him with awe. 'You saved my—'

  'Yeah, yeah. Anyone see any more coming?' He ducked as an arrow from outside flew in through the breach and bounced off the metal wall.

  'Can't see any right now,' Malvery replied.

  'I hear them,' said Jez. She'd taken on that trance-like, distant look that she got more and more lately. Or it might just have been the shock of getting an arrow pulled out of her hand. 'A dozen or so. They're inside the craft.'

  Frey turned to Grist, and saw the captain staring intently at Jez, a frown on his face. 'She's got good ears,' he said quickly. 'Seems like you were right. There is another way in. We can't stay here.'

  Grist stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and lit it with a match. 'Death or glory, then?'

  Frey sighed. 'I suppose so.'

  They spilled from the breach in a disorganised mass, guns pointing everywhere, firing randomly and shouting insults. The rainforest hid their assailants. Arrows thumped into the ground at their feet or hissed through the air, coming from nowhere. They ran headlong towards the enemy, racing for the low ridge which was the only way out of the trap. It was just visible through the trees, a craggy wall three or four times the height of a man. They'd have to climb it, while those bloody beast-men were doing their level best to kill them.

  Frey was terrified. Full-frontal assaults were among his least favourite ways to spend a day.

  Two revolvers, he thought. Five chambers each. That's ten bullets. One of them is in that hairy bastard back in the dreadnought. That leaves nine.

  Something moved at the periphery of his vision. He saw a red-furred creature squatting on a tree branch overhead, aiming a bow down at them. It was flat-faced and heavy-browed, with hardly any nose to speak of. It wore a tangle of bone jewellery and a crudely patterned smock. He shot it and it flew backwards off the branch, the arrow going wide.

  Eight.

  'Hey!'

  He glanced over his shoulder. The cry had come from Tarworth, the crewman Pinn had shot in the leg. He was limping after them with his rifle as a crutch, but he was unable to keep up. Frey didn't have the slightest intention of slowing down for him, but he thought Grist and Crattle might have spared a moment to consider their crewman. Apparently not. That wasn't how it worked under Grist's command.

  'Hey, wait for me!' Tarworth called, fear giving his voice a touch of hysteria. Two arrows hit him, almost simultaneously. One in the chest, one in the eye. His crutch slipped under him and he went down in a clumsy tumble.

  Frey looked away. No time to give a damn. Men died all the time. His concern was protecting his own.

  The beast-men came out of the foliage, rushing in with their carved wooden clubs, ready to crack skulls. Frey was crushed amid a chaotic melee. Shotguns roared at close range. Hot blood spattered his face. He saw Silo, pistol in one hand, machete in the other. He swung and split the jaw of a beast-man. Malvery fired wildly and blew off one of their assailant's legs at the knee.

  Suddenly the group of defenders surged and Frey found himself out on the edge. One of the creatures was coming at him, a thing out of nightmare, a monstrous pile of muscle, lips skinned back, yellowed teeth like tombstones. Nobody to hide behind now. Frey stuck out both revolvers and fired. The savage crumpled, but its momentum carried it forward into him, knocking him to the ground. He struggled frantically under its weight, its rank stink filling his nostrils. Feet stamped all around, threatening to trample him. With a huge effort, he shoved the dead thing aside, scooped up his revolvers and got to his feet.

  Six bullets left.

  'Come on, you ugly sons of whores!' Grist cried, sphere tucked under one arm, revolver levelled. Crake was stuffing bullets into the drum of his own weapon, having no doubt wasted the previous five. The daemonist's lack of accuracy was legendary. An arrow whisked past Frey's head and thumped, quivering, into a tree trunk. He ducked, long after it would have done any good.

  Seconds passed, and no new attack. A break in the assault. Frey took the initiative before any more arrows came.

  'Get going! To the ridge!'

  That spurred them. They ran onwards. The beast-men rustied and moved with them, always staying out of sight. Impossible to tell their numbers. Ten? Fifty? Frey saw Malvery empty his shotgun into the foliage in a cloud of shredded leaves and blood.

  What have I got us into? Frey thought, not for the first time.

  'They're coming up behind us!' Crattle yelled. He was pointing to where the hull of the dreadnought rose over them, partially obscured by the trees. Beast-men were shambling out of the breach. Some of them had taken up the chase, others were investigating the abandoned packs piled at the entrance. Only Silo and Crake were encumbered now, carrying the daemonist's equipment; the rest had left their gear behind in favour of speed.

  Frey pushed on towards the rock wall that was their only way out. A red-furred female popped up on top of it, pointing a bow down at them. Even the smaller females were almost two metres tall. They were breastiess, and only differed outwardly from the males in the colour of their fur and their slighter build. It snarled and aimed, feral intelligence glittering in its small eyes.

  There was a volley of gunshots from behind Frey. The beast-woman jerked and keeled over, arrow tangling in her fingers, unfired.

  'Cover me!' Frey cried. 'I'm going up!'

  He thrust his pistols into his belt and began to climb. It was only halfway up that he began to consider what in damnation he was doing. There were plenty of other people who could have gone up first. Why did he volunteer?

  A rush of blood to the head. Swept up in the moment. The kind of stupid bravery that got people killed. But it was too late to back out now.

  He got his arms over the top of the ridge and pulled his head and shoulders up. Two beast-men were running along the ridge towards him, clubs in their hands. Faced with a leg-breaking drop if he let go, he chose to go on, straining to lift himself over the edge. If he could get his feet under him in time, if he could get a revolver out—

  There was a crackle of gunfire below him. One of the beast-men tumbled. The other came on, unhurt. Frey was still scrambling desperately on to the ridge when the beast-man reached him. He got his knee over and rolled aside just as the club smashed into the ground, centimetres from his head.

  He sprang to his feet, but the beast-man was quick. With its other hand, it snatched him up by the throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. Frey choked as rough fingers cut off his air. He kicked uselessly, one hand clawing at the beast-man's hairy wrist. The savage raised its club, ready to smash his skull like an egg.

  Two gunshots. The beast-man's face changed from fury to puzzlement. A disturbingly human expression. Then the fingers around Frey's neck loosened, and the beast-man fell. Frey staggered back, one hand going to his throat, the other still holding the revolver he'd pulled from his belt.

  Four.

  His companions had started climbing up from below, one by one, while the rest held off the beast-men. Frey hid behind a tree near the lip of the ridge. He scanned the undergrowth, ready to defend his position until reinforcements could arrive. He rather hoped that the three savages who lay dead nearby would be all he had to deal with, but, as usual, he was disappointed. A thrashing of leaves warned him as two more males came running out of the forest, bare feet pounding the ground, beads and hide armour flapping around them.

  Frey was ready for them this time. He calmly aimed and shot one of them in the head.

  Three bullets left.

  He shifted his aim to the other, sighted, and pulled the trigger again.

  The revolver clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  There was a moment of cold realisation as the flaw in Frey's maths revealed itself. He had ten bullets in two revolvers, but he hadn't been firing them equally. He'd been favouring the one in his right hand. And now it was out of bullets.

  He r
aised the gun in his left hand but the beast-man was too close. It swung its club down at him. He half-dodged at the last moment and caught a glancing blow on his outstretched forearm, hard enough to numb his hand. His revolver fired uselessly into the ground - two left -and dropped from his nerveless fingers.

  The beast-man was startled by the noise of the revolver, long enough for Frey to back off a few paces. He sized up his options. The pistol in his right hand was empty, and he needed that hand free so he could draw his cutlass. But it seemed a shame to waste a good weapon, so he flipped it into the air, caught it neatly by the barrel, and sent it spinning towards his attacker. It cracked the beast-man hard on the forehead and flew away into the undergrowth. The beast-man staggered backwards, lost its footing, and plunged off the lip of the ridge.

  'Oy!' cried Malvery from below. 'Don't send 'em down to us! We've got enough of our own!' His complaint was followed by a gunshot as he executed the bewildered beast-man somewhere out of sight.

  Frey drew his cutlass as another beast-man came growling into sight. It lunged at him, and he let the blade draw his arm into a parry. The blow from the club came hard, jolting his arm. Another blow came, and another. Frey blocked them, but each time his block was weaker. Even with the strength of the sword to aid him, the beast-man's raw power was overwhelming. It attacked in a frenzy, battering at Frey's guard. He tried a counter-thrust, but only opened himself up to a swing that he just barely evaded. Teeth gritted, sweating, he backed off under the fierce rain of blows.

  I can't hold it off! he. thought, panicking. I can't . . .

  There was a tremendous boom to his left, and a gory hole was punched through the beast-man's chest, flinging it away. Frey looked over his shoulder and saw Grist clambering awkwardly over the lip of the ridge, lever-action shotgun in one hand, sphere tucked into his elbow, cigar still clamped firmly in his mouth. Frey was astounded that he'd managed to climb at all, carrying all that. Grist picked up the pistol Frey had dropped and held it out to him.

  'You owe me one, Cap'n Frey,' he said.

  There was a sharp hiss as an arrow slipped through the undergrowth. Frey heard it, swung his arm, and the cutlass did the rest. He cut the shaft in half an instant before it reached Grist's chest, then spun on his heel and flung his cutlass like a spear into the undergrowth. There was an animal shriek, and a beast-woman staggered out into the open, the cutlass buried in its chest. Blood soaked through the coarse fibres of its smock, and it toppled to the earth.

  'Not any more,' said Frey, taking the pistol.

  Grist gaped, staring down at the halves of the arrow that had bounced harmlessly off his coat. 'How . . . ?'

  'It's all in the wrist,' he said. He hurried over to the fallen beast-woman, planted his foot on its shoulder and wrenched the bloody cutlass free with his left hand. He was getting the feeling back in his arm and fingers now. They hurt like buggery, but at least they still worked. He thought about looking for the other pistol, but it was lost in the undergrowth and he didn't fancy seaching for it while surrounded by murderous savages. No great loss, anyway: he was a bad shot with his left hand.

  Others were clambering up on to the ridge. Jez, Crattle, Pinn. They took positions on the edge and covered Crake, Hodd, Malvery and Silo as they climbed up after. Frey and Grist watched the forest warily. All had gone suspiciously quiet. They could still hear the beast-men rustling about, but no more arrows were loosed, and no more attacks came.

  'You think they've given up?' Frey asked. He popped the drum of his remaining revolver and slid in fresh bullets.

  Grist's eyes were grim beneath his bushy brows. 'Might be they're smart enough to know when they've bit off more than they can chew.'

  'Let's hope so,' he said, snapping the drum shut. Behind him, Malvery was struggling on to the ridge. The last of them. 'We all here?' he asked.

  'All here, Cap'n,' Jez replied, wiping sweaty hair away from her face with an expression of vague amazement. 'Somehow.'

  'Mr Hodd!' Frey called. 'Point us in the right direction. Let's get moving before these beast-men decide to have another go at us.'

  'That way,' Hodd said, thrusting out a finger without hesitation.

  'Right,' said Frey. 'Eyes peeled, weapons ready. Reload if you need to. And if you see anything with more than fifty per cent body hair, shoot it!'

  Twelve

  The Prognostications Of Doctor Malvery — Old Acquaintances— A New Light Is Shed On Captain Grist

  The rain began again in the night. They trudged through the mud, slipping on roots, cold and soaked to the bone. Any hope of shelter had been left behind with their packs. Though they were hungry and tired, nobody had any thought of stopping. They had no idea if the beast-men were tracking them or not, but Frey didn't want to get caught napping. By unspoken consent they travelled through the night, making their slow, frustrating and occasionally painful way through the near-total dark of the rainforest.

  The downpour let up at dawn, and a dull light came over the cloud-shrouded land. By then Frey was utterly miserable: half-drowned, freezing and exhausted. But nothing had killed them in the night, and the worst they'd suffered on their journey were scrapes and bruises, so he reckoned they could count themselves lucky.

  We're coming back three men less than when we set out, he thought. But none of them were mine. That's the important thing. I brought them all back alive.

  Grist was plodding along tiredly ahead of him, following in Hodd's footsteps. Frey eyed the strange metal sphere cradled under his arm. He hadn't let it go for a moment, not even when the beast-men attacked.

  What are we gonna do about that? he wondered. He didn't trust Grist not to pull a doublecross. Didn't feel at all easy about letting him hold on to that thing. There'd be another confrontation before all of this was over. He wondered if he'd come out of it so well the second time.

  They reached the landing site in the early morning. There was a general exclamation of relief as they spied the gunwale of the Storm Dog rising over the treetops, and a round of congratulations for Hodd, who'd guided them expertly by night to get them back to safety. The mood became suddenly buoyant. They'd made it. Even if they weren't exactly carrying chests of booty, they still felt like they'd conquered the savage island. Frey's crew would be glad just to get back to somewhere they could get a good meal and a mug of grog.

  The trees thinned out and they walked into the barren clearing where their aircraft stood. The sounds of the awakening rainforest filled the air, and they could hear the distant bellow of the waterfall that fell from the mountains, but otherwise all was quiet. The cargo ramps of their craft were closed, and there was not a sign of another living being. They came to a stop, sensing something amiss.

  'Maybe it's earlier than we thought?' Crake suggested, consulting his pocket watch. 'Nobody up yet?'

  'Something ain't right,' Malvery rumbled. 'Feel it in my pods.'

  'In your pods?' Pinn asked.

  Malvery clasped his crotch with one hand. 'My pods are shrinking,' said Malvery. 'Trying to hide, ain't they? Sure sign of trouble.'

  'Sure sign of you being a bloody fruitcake,' Pinn muttered. 'The day I take advice from your bollocks is the day I—'

  'Go back to your fairytale sweetheart?' Crake finished for him, rather maliciously.

  'Hey!' Pinn cried, but Malvery's guffaw drowned him out.

  Frey was getting a bad feeling about this whole situation. It got worse when he heard the crunch of a shotgun being primed behind him. Malvery's laughter died away to a quizzical and rather worried chuckle.

  'Everyone stay right where you are,' said a voice. 'Keep your hands away from them pistols!' He heard footsteps on the stony ground. Men coming from the trees behind them.

  His heart sank. He should have seen it coming. Should have known Grist would try and pull something.

  'Throw your weapons on the ground, all of you!' ordered the voice.

  'You just told us to keep our hands away from them!' Frey said. 'Make up your mind.'


  It wasn't a smart thing to do, but Frey was frustrated and he couldn't curb his mouth in time. He was rewarded with a shotgun butt to the back of his head, which sent him to his knees, skull pulsing with white agony.

  'Anyone else want to be clever?'

  Frey spat bitterly and blinked to try and clear his vision. He pulled out his pistol and tossed it away.

  I should have seen it coming. Should never have trusted that bastard. Not even for a moment.

  But when he looked up, he saw Grist throwing his own weapon on the ground, his face dark as a thundercloud.

  Not him? Then who?

  Frey got back to his feet, his hands in the air, and faced the newcomers. There were six he could see, and several more stepping into the clearing from the other side. They must have encircled the aircraft and lain in wait. Hard-faced men who looked like they knew their business. The foremost - the one who'd almost brained him with a shotgun butt - was a hulking bruiser with a face like a bag of spanners. A man behind him was fumbling with a flare gun, which he raised and fired into the sky.

  'Where's my crew?' Grist snarled.

  'Trussed up safe, Cap'n Grist. Don't you worry,' said Spanners.

  'And mine?' Frey asked.

  Spanners gave him a look. 'Still in the Ketty Jay, far as I know. She ain't goin' anywhere, and nobody's stupid enough to try gettin' inside with that golem waitin'. Don't intend on tanglin' with that beast twice.'

  Twice? Frey thought. Who are these people?

  Then he heard the rumbling of engines overhead. He looked up to see the prow of a frigate gliding into sight from behind the peak of a nearby mountain. His heart had already sunk into his stomach; now it felt like it was trying to make its way down his leg with the intention of tunnelling through his foot and heading underground.

  He knew that frigate. That black, scarred monster, built like an ocean liner, her deck laden with weaponry.

  Trinica Dracken's craft: the Delirium Trigger.

  He watched the shuttle descend from the frigate with a deep sense of trepidation. She would be on it, of course. The woman he'd loved, once, back when they were both young and didn't know any better. The woman he'd deserted on their wedding day. The woman who'd tried to kill herself in her grief and only succeeded in killing the baby in her womb. His baby.