The pot sped swift and true, too fast for the clumsy wights to react… but as the crockery hurtled through the darkness, a blur of motion intercepted it, smashing it to the ground mere inches in front of Rivi's feet. The blur snapped around to block any more projectiles that might fly out of the building; and I saw it was Kiripao, a look of ecstasy on his face.
«Peel it off,» he said, staring straight at me. «Peel away the shell.»
With one fluid motion, he tucked a toe under the lip of the crockpot and kicked it back at me with the speed of a cannonball. I dove for the floor; the wind from the passing pot whisked coldly against my neck. A moment later, plaster spattered around my legs as the pot gouged a chunk from the wall behind me.
Expecting Kiripao himself to barrel through the window any second, I whipped out my sword and rolled to my feet. He might be fast, but I had the advantage – he'd have to land gingerly to avoid the broken glass on the floor, giving me time to impale him straight through the heart. The question was, could I really do it? I'd never really liked Kiripao, but he'd been on our side to begin with. Even if he worked for the enemy now, he wasn't responsible for his actions: the umbrals had infected him with their twisted mentality, and perhaps Rivi had done some tinkering too. Did Kiripao deserve to die?
No. He didn't. But I'd kill him anyway if he came through that window. When a dog goes mad, you don't have a choice.
I waited, forcing myself not to hold my breath. He'd come through the window, or maybe the broken-down door. I stood where I had a clear path to each, a single step forward and the killing thrust. Seconds trickled by; and then a wail came from the kitchen, Hezekiah cursing, «Damn, damn, damn, she did it to me again! I'm completely blanked.»
«You really have to work on your willpower, darling,» Rivi called from the street. «You're a dear wee child, but you don't have the instinct for blood. Too soft. Too… undirected.»
Hezekiah shouted back, «I'll 'direct' you if I get my hands on you.»
«That's the spirit,» Rivi laughed. «Focus on hatred and vengeance; you'll be as strong as me in no time. Of course, that's precisely what you have: no time.»
«How'd you find us, Rivi?» That was Yasmin, asking a question I would have asked myself, except that I didn't want to give away my position.
«Your friend Kiripao has been an utter dear,» Rivi replied. «He met two of my colleagues in a drinking establishment not far from here. Picked them out of the crowd, walked right up, and told them precisely where you were. I'd say that he sold you out, except that he's not interested in monetary reward.»
«Peel them,» Kiripao cried. «Peel them all!»
Rivi chuckled. «Apparently he's developed some fascinating ideas on how to free your souls from their wee prisons of flesh. He cares about you, he really does; he sees himself as your personal liberator.»
This last statement prompted Kiripao to make a whuffling sound, like a bear slavering over a carcass. Perhaps the sound was laughter… or weeping.
«Now, darlings,» said Rivi, «far be it from me to interfere with a monk enlightening his flock; but I could try to restrain him, if you showed a wee bit of cooperation. Give me the grinder, right here, right now, and I guarantee we'll all walk away from this, whistling tunes of cheer.»
«I can't whistle,» Hezekiah snapped back, in what he must have thought was a brilliant retort.
Wheezle said in a low voice, «Once the honored madwoman gets through, you'll whistle any tune she wants.»
«I don't have to be nice about this,» Rivi called. «I have enough wights to take what I want by force. But Plague-Mort is such a dear wee town, it makes me sentimental to a fault. Why don't I give you a count of ten? One… isn't this exciting? Two… no, it isn't. Ten. Sorry, I got bored.»
That's when the wights charged en masse.
I don't know what instructions Rivi had given the wights – probably to fight their way inside and kill anyone who resisted. Whatever she told them, the nasty wee albino still hadn't realized her hate-filled slaves yearned to pervert the intention of her commands; or perhaps, Rivi was so used to being loathed that she no longer gave it any thought. She certainly hadn't told the wights to exercise any useful tactics, like a two-pronged attack through window and door. Instead, the wights simply swarmed forward, claws swinging, throats hissing, until they collided with the front wall of the building… then they took out the wall.
It didn't happen all at once. A dozen sets of claws smashed the building simultaneously, stabbing through the wood exterior and the plaster inside. I could see individual fingers piercing the wall in front of me, talons flexing. In unison, the fingers clenched into fists and pulled backward with supernatural strength. Plaster broke off in handfuls… and with a groaning of rusty nails, board after board ripped off the front of the house, leaving long horizontal gaps. It took the wights a few moments to shake off the lumber still clinging to their fingers; then their hands crashed out in unison again, like claw-tipped battering rams.
You know, I thought to myself, in a normal town, bar fights, prowling monsters, and a house being demolished by the undead would eventually catch the attention of the city watch. But in beautiful Plague-Mort, pearl of the Outlands…
The wights heaved and ripped off another bunch of boards. It was a riveting visual effect, strips of the house being ripped away to let lamplight glimmer through: lamplight choked with plaster dust and twinkling off the broken glass on the floor. A painting of that would sell very well to an Anarchist… not that most Anarchists had money, of course, but there must be some prominent merchants who were secretly Anarchist sympathizers…
«Are you going to stand there and let them tear the house apart?» Yasmin demanded.
«Sorry,» I murmured, collecting my thoughts. «I was just contemplating the beauties of Entropy.»
She looked at me narrowly, debating whether I was mocking her beliefs. Before she could come to a conclusion I'd regret, I said, «Let's get busy, shall we?» and lifted my sword.
Truth to tell, wights whacking the wall of one's only refuge might look sodding scary, but the house was built to withstand hurricanes like the one Zeerith had described; the undead were still a long way from collapsing the place, or even clawing their way inside. All they'd really done was rip out the horizontal equivalent of arrow slits: four-inch wide holes, ideal for stabbing swords out at attackers. Even better, as soon as the wights rammed their talons into the wood again, they were as good as handcuffed, like condemned prisoners waiting for the axe.
Yasmin and I gladly played their executioners.
I took out two the first time: a pair of quick thrusts, both through rotting faces, the jabs hard enough to drive bone chips liberally through the wights' brains. The first one fell without a sound. The second had enough time to spit a hiss of rage; then my rapier plunged straight between its eyes, pithing whatever last thoughts such a creature might have.
The other wights tore away a few more boards; but the monsters Yasmin and I dispatched only slumped where they were, their claws still deeply imbedded in the wall. I wished I could see them from the street – a group of dead wights dangling from the front of the house by their hands, their heads skewered and spilling out brains.
A nice score, I thought to myself. If Yasmin and I both killed two wights with every assault, we'd soon whittle down the opposition to just Rivi and Kiripao… and Qi and Chi, of course, wherever they were.