But still Boreates lingered, thousands of years later, its hab-levels fossilising, its creaking generatoria thundering, its walkways teetering on crumbling piers above the dizzying drops below. The winds still ripped through the chasms, generating eddies between the towers that scoured the iron supports and ripped the paint from the ancient stone.
‘Set me down there,’ Spinoza ordered, watching as the ninth bridge spurring out from the sixth tower swam into view out of the gathering dusk.
Hegain brought the Nighthawk down over the bridge’s upper surface. ‘You wish it that the rest of the troops are to dispatch now?’
‘No, not yet,’ said Spinoza, unbuckling. ‘Take the ship out beyond the perimeter and scan the conurbation intakes for armed convoys. The Militarum have been mobilised here — they will be targets. Contact me as soon as you detect movement.’
Hegain paused before replying, unsure what to make of those orders, but quickly corrected himself. ‘As you will it, lord. As soon as anything moves in, in whatever way, you’ll know it.’ He held the Nighthawk steady over the bridge’s surface, expertly feeding power to the turbines amid the buffeting wind. ‘May He protect you in all of the things, lord. May He guide your arm.’
Spinoza unlocked the door and dry wind raced into the cockpit. ‘I have never doubted that He should,’ she murmured, dropping down to the ground below.
Once down, she watched the Nighthawk power away, boosting high above the bridge-level before dropping again to sweep around the cluster’s rim. Soon it was lost in the murk, its tail lights last to go.
Alone, Spinoza walked a little way along the bridge, assessing its dimensions, its opportunities for cover, its links to the surrounding towers.
She guessed she was about six hundred metres above the first webs of transitways, clear of the flight paths of all but unrestricted air traffic. The bridge itself was about a hundred metres long, slung between the titanic boles of two massive spire-edges. The wind screamed around it, wearing at the disintegrating barriers that marched along either edge. The walkway looked like it hadn’t been used for centuries, and it was not hard to see why — the vertigo was one thing, the lack of proper protective fences and the corroded surface another. It was not so much a bridge as a forlorn beam of iron hung between citadels, as bare and lethal as a thrown spear. Loose cabling hung below it, swinging wildly in the endless gale. Further down, plunging through the racing smog cover, the dazzling filtered lumens of the urban sprawl winked back, spread like a carpet of gaudy costume jewellery over the deep dark.
Spinoza shivered. The air was as caustic as ever, but so high up it had lost its punishing heat. The humidity was still present, though — the massed respiratory results of the quadrillions down in their warrens, those narrow worlds of damp and desperation. She had left her helm locked to her armour, and the clammy gale ruffled through her short hair. Every so often a buffet would catch her, a swell of pressure that threatened to shove her over the edge.
‘Come on, then,’ she breathed, strolling out to the centre of the open span, looking up into the growing night-gloom, listening for the telltale roar of atmospheric engines.
In the end, none came. The first sign of movement was a rattle of metal on metal behind her. Spinoza whirled around, her crozius whipping out and snarling, to see a long clamber-wire uncoiling. She snapped her head up in time to see her adversary sliding down it from another span fifty metres up.
Falx dropped to the deck, crouching low, her power sword crackling with the same lurid energy. The length of clamber-wire unshackled and whistled back into its socket, sucking closed as the last gripper slotted back into place.
The operative’s cameleo armour had lost its scatter-sheen, and was now revealed as a close-fitting suit of carapace plates, light but strong, matt-black and scored with dozens of impact burns. Her face was covered, just as before, and a thick mesh vox-grille distorted the noise of her breathing.
‘That last transmission,’ Falx said, getting to her feet and edging towards Spinoza, blade in guard. ‘You know I am listening.’
‘I guessed,’ said Spinoza, holding her ground. The two of them stood just a few metres apart, weapons drawn, the dry wind screaming about them.
‘You should not have sent your guards away,’ Falx said.
‘They will return.’
‘Not soon enough.’
Spinoza smiled. ‘I know you care nothing for him,’ she ventured, playing her hand. ‘The False Angel. You have nothing to do with him. You were tracking us.’
Falx didn’t make a move.
‘You could have killed me, when we last met,’ said Spinoza.
‘I can kill you now.’
‘I would be interested to see, then, how I match up against the Shoba school.’
Falx edged forwards, coiled tight, ready to pounce, but still the blade remained static. A hint of uncertainty weighted her movements. For all her confidence, she was still going warily.
‘You should have worked harder,’ said Spinoza, pushing a little further, watching the power sword like a hawk. ‘It is a distinctive accent, but I would not have known without the file from Huk. Now I do. You are Phaelias’ assassin. You are Niir Khazad.’
With a scream, the woman launched herself at Spinoza. The movement was dazzlingly fast, just as before, and it was all Spinoza could do to ram her crozius into the path of the sword. The weapons clashed in a hail of released energy, and Spinoza staggered backwards, driven towards the spire at her back.
Falx went after her, spinning her blade and leaving smear-trails of energy. The crozius swung back, catching the blade on the flat and nearly tearing it out into the void, but Falx’s grip was strong and she wrenched it away. The assassin lunged point-first, causing Spinoza to leap backwards, then parry, then parry again, harder, faster. The disruptor charge exploded around them both, snatched by the gale and ripped into a web of churning, rotating plasma.
‘I should have killed you,’ Falx snarled, furious, slashing wildly to knock Spinoza off balance.
‘Then you would have learned nothing,’ replied Spinoza, working hard not to get cut to ribbons. ‘That is what you trail us for, yes? You do not know.’
Falx kept on coming, her blade glittering, slicing, angling wickedly into Spinoza’s desperate parries. ‘Neither do you,’ she hissed, feinting to one side before kicking out, her boot catching Spinoza in the stomach. The interrogator flew back, hitting the deck and skidding towards the edge. For a horrifying second she could see the lights below, beckoning her over.
She caught the railing, using her momentum to swing round, scrabbling back to safety. Falx pounced, leaping high, her blade held two-handed.
Spinoza brought up her crozius and the weapons shrieked together again. Prone still, Spinoza gritted her teeth, feeling her enemy push the burning maul closer.
‘Stupid, to stay here alone,’ Falx said, putting all her weight into it.
‘Would… not have come… otherwise,’ gasped Spinoza, feeling her arms tremble as she pushed the blade back.
With her last strength, Spinoza heaved, feeding Argent a pulse of plasma-burn to kindle against the sword’s edge. The detonation threw Falx clear, and Spinoza jumped into pursuit. The two of them threw more blows in, rocking back and forth across the narrow span. Falx swung a heavy crosswise swipe, aiming for Spinoza’s head. Spinoza ducked down and thrust her whole body forwards, catching Falx in the chest and crashing her off balance. Then she pulled back, swiped Argent once, twice, three times, using it like a bludgeon. The last stroke was the most brutal, launched twohanded, boosted by her armour and sent almost as hard as its old owner would have moved it.