There was a banging from the trapdoor, louder and more urgent than before now that it was not muffled by so much rubble, and the ghaureg's heads snapped around to fix on the old man who crouched there. He paled.
The three Tkiurathi moved together, taking advantage of the instant of distraction to cross the distance between them and the predators. Their hide shoes were so soft and their tread so light that the ghauregs did not hear them coming; they turned back only just in time to react to the attack.
Tsata saw the fist swiping towards him early enough to duck beneath it. He rammed one of his gutting-hooks into the ghaureg's ribs with as much force as he could muster. It bit deep, but the thick muscles of the beast were too tough to cut easily, and the blade wrenched free of his hand as he darted past. The ghaureg overswung, roaring in pain, and one of the other Tkiurathi took its hand off at the wrist with a brutal downward stroke; but he had been too eager at the sight of an inviting target, and he did not see the ghaureg's other hand until it grabbed his shin in an unbreakable grip. He slashed across the beast's muzzle, slicing through its lip, but the blade jarred against bone and glanced off. It flung him away, whipping him by his leg with a cracking of bones to send him flailing through the air. He crashed in a heap against the rubble, but even before he had landed Tsata had made his second strike. Occupied with one enemy, the ghaureg had no time to deal with the other, and Tsata plunged his second gutting-hook into the creature's back with all his strength.
This time he found something vital. His enemy lurched away spasmodically for a few steps, trying to paw at its back but unable to reach; then it collapsed, and blood ran over its lower teeth with its last bubbling breath.
Tsata had never lost sight of the second ghaureg in the time it took to despatch the first one. That one was still engaged with the remaining Tkiurathi. He did not spare a moment to check on his fallen comrade, but instead he carefully approached the body of the ghaureg, ready to leap away if it should move. He wrenched his weapons free and then went to the aid of his beleaguered kinsman.
That man – his name was Heth – had been fighting tactically. Instead of going up alone against a stronger enemy he had been drawing it after him to allow the others time to finish off the first ghaureg. Now he saw Tsata coming, and the advantage turned his way. He switched to the offensive, ducking in low to hack across his enemy's knees. The strike was inexact, hitting its calf instead, but it was enough to send a flood of red soaking through the grey fur. Heth pulled back faster than the counterpunch could follow, and in that moment Tsata got in behind the beast, close enough to chop a deep blow into its tricep before retreating out of its reach. Enraged, it swung back to snap at him, and once again Heth slipped inside its guard and raked a cut along its thigh.
They harried it for several minutes, each time leaving a wound, each time escaping its grasp. Finally, when its pelt was drenched crimson and blood loss had made it sluggish, Heth took advantage of an ill-executed lunge to take it through the throat, and it went down without another sound.
Tsata exchanged a breathless smile with Heth. 'We must be quick,' he said in their native tongue. 'Others may come.'
They sheathed their blades. Heth went to see to their companion, who was beginning to scream as the shock wore off. Tsata went for the trapdoor. Fumes were coming thickly from beneath it now. The knocking had stopped, and the old man was long gone. Tsata cleared away the remainder of the debris and pulled the trapdoor open, keeping it between himself and the hatchway. Flame billowed out, then retreated and settled to an insidious purr.
He took a breath, held it, and looked down into the hatchway. His eyes began tearing immediately: the smoke was too hot to bear for long. Unable to see, he instead reached in, trusting to his senses to tell him if he was getting too close to the fire. His hand touched fabric and muscle. He found a purchase, guessing it to be the upper arm of the person who had been knocking, and pulled.
The man was surprisingly light for his size, but even so Tsata had trouble with the dead weight. He dragged the limp figure across the rubble a little way and laid him down, but by then it was already apparent that he was too late.
Tsata looked down on him for a moment. His skin was white, his features so small as to be almost vestigial. There were little gill-slits at his neck, and his glazed eyes were bulbous, with pupils like crosses. An Aberrant.
He had been hiding in the city, perhaps sheltered by the cobbler. Tsata had heard that Aberrants were no longer executed on sight as they had been before the civil war began. Priorities had changed now, and with both the Red Order and Lucia fighting on their side, it seemed inappropriate to allow the killing any longer. But prejudice could not be erased as easily. Though it was unlawful to murder them, they were still reviled in the main, still forced to hide or to take shelter in their own remote communities. People like the Red Order were the lucky ones; they had the outside appearance of normality, at least. This man would have been treated as a freak.
Tsata's eyes tightened in disgust at the thought. There was so much hate in this once-beautiful land. He wondered if this man had had a family, for unlike Tsata's home, pair-bonding and the exclusive possession of offspring was the way in Saramyr. Then he glanced over at the hatchway, where flames were licking out. He decided that he would rather not know. Barak Zahn sat on horseback near the south gate of Zila, overseeing the rabble of townsfolk fleeing for their lives. He was flanked by several bodyguards, and nearby a group of Blood Vinaxis soldiers fought to herd the crowd and keep them calm. Like panicked animals, they were liable to stampede. The noise was terrible, and the air still lingered with the smell of the feya-kori's fog, mingled with the infectious odour of fear.
He looked up the hill at where one of the demons had almost finished smashing the keep to rubble. The other one was tracking about at random, pounding houses and shops and warehouses to pieces with slow and methodical blows. The sound of tumbling stone and the demon's cries rolled across the town.
His blood burned: he was furious at his own impotence. Gods, it felt so fundamentally wrong to abandon a strategic outpost like this. He had men ranged along the riverbank and along the walls, but they were only putting up as much resistance as was necessary to evacuate everyone they could, keeping the Aberrants out for as long as possible. This was a lost battle the moment the feya-kori appeared. There simply was no defence against them. And this is what it would be like in the next town they attacked, and the next, until the Southern Prefectures had fallen and the Weavers had swallowed the land.
Still, even in the face of such abject defeat, he salvaged what positive aspects he could to pass on to his allies. They were holding back the Aberrants along the river to the west and east with relative ease. Apparently the attack had relied on the feya-kori breaking down the wall and the Aberrants flooding over the water north of the town. But the feya-kori had broken through and then gone on a rampage, and the troops of the Empire were quick enough to seal the breach behind them. If there had been any kind of tactical thought applied by the demons, they would have made a bigger hole, or at least stayed there to ensure that enough Aberrants had got through to keep the passage open. Zahn doubted that the Weavers had more than a rudimentary control over their terrible creations, and that, at least, was something worth knowing.
He looked up at where the gristle-crows circled high above, out of rifle range. As always, the Nexuses were nearby, hidden and protected, directing the battle from afar. The gristle-crows were their eyes, the Aberrant predators their puppets. If they could get to the Nexuses they could throw the animals into disorder; but the Nexuses had learned to stay scattered since Zahn had routed them at the battle of the Fold, years ago. And even if they did, even if they slew every Aberrant here, they still could not win. It came back to one immutable fact: they had no weapon against the blight demons.