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, drew 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.
In one quick movement, he raised his pistol and fired. The Imperator’s head snapped back and smacked against the stone wall behind him. Then he slid to the ground, dead.