‘Come on,’ she said suddenly. ‘Can’t let Bess do all the work.’
She hurried off up the carriage, following the wails of dying men.
Six
F rey was just getting the hang of jumping between carriages when the guards started shooting at him.
The first one caught him by surprise. He didn’t know anyone was there until he heard a gunshot and felt something whip past him, dragging a searing trail of pain along the side of his neck. He whirled, one hand clutched to the wound. It stung, but the handhe Z came away dry. Just a graze.
There was a Dakkadian at the other end of the carriage, squat, pale and blond, with the narrow eyes and broad features of his kind. He’d climbed on to the roof and was fighting to steady himself against the wind and the rocking of the train. He aimed another shot at Frey, but swayed at the last moment and fired wild. Frey, whose balance was steadier, drew his revolver. He sighted and shot his target in the chest. The guard spun and disappeared beneath the carriages, swallowed by the roaring metal monster beneath their feet.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Frey muttered sourly to himself, putting his hand to his neck again. The graze was starting to seep. He didn’t dare think about how close he’d come to death that time.
He forged on up the train. He wasn’t far from the engine carriage now. Ashua and Silo were still chasing down the final enemy Rattletrap in the distance, their wheels kicking up dust. The sharp sound of gunfire drifted over to him.
He still saw no sign of Jez’s Rattletrap, but he was no longer worried about it. Through the ceiling vents, he’d heard some kind of commotion aboard the train. Men were fleeing from the rear carriages towards the front, howling. He didn’t need to be able to understand them to guess the cause. He recognised the wild fear of someone who’d just come face to face with the impossible.
That meant only one thing. Somehow, Bess was on board.
He took a run-up to jump for the next carriage, his confidence growing. Maybe they would take this train down after all. The hot, dry wind opposed him, plucking at his clothes, a hundred faint hands flurrying for a grip.
Just as he reached the gap between the carriages, a head poked up between them. A Sammie, his features handsome and sharp, skin black as oil. Frey saw him far too late to check his stride. He jumped over the Sammie’s head, but the man threw up an arm to protect himself, and it caught Frey’s foot. Frey flailed in the air and slammed down hard on the roof of the far carriage, his pistol skidding out of his grip and off the side. Pain exploded through him as the mass of bruises on his ribs received sudden reinforcements.
He tried to breathe and found that he couldn’t. Winded and gasping, he rolled on to his back, and saw another guard, this one Dakkadian, climbing up on to the roof next to him. Panicking, he fumbled for the second pistol that was stuffed in his belt, yanked it free, and thrust it into the surprised guard’s face. He pulled the trigger, and flinched as he was spattered with blood.
His lungs still wouldn’t suck in the air he needed. He got his feet under him and began to rise, drawing his cutlass with his off-hand as he did so. But he stopped halfway, still in a crouch. He was already too late. The Sammie had a pistol levelled at him, from a distance of no more than a couple of metres. Dead to rights.
A heartbeat passed, and it seemed to last an age. The world sharpened to a point. Frey took in every Ctoo sudden detail of the man who was about to kill him. The elegant, almost feminine features. Long, black hair, gathered in a queue and decorated with a complex hairpiece of silver filigree. The wonderfully worked blue silk coat, light as air, that hung down to his knees. His brocaded shirt. His beautiful pistol, worked with silver intaglios along its length.
Then the Sammie fired, and Frey’s hand moved. It was not by his will; it was pulled by the cutlass, which operated with a mind of its own. There was a spark, and the whine of a ricochet.
The Sammie stared at him, unable to understand why his bullet hadn’t found its mark. Frey didn’t give him time for a second chance. He straightened and shot his enemy through the forehead.
It took him a few more moments to get his breath back. He tipped his cutlass and examined it for damage, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. He’d barely even felt the jolt of the bullet up his arm. This was a daemon-thralled blade, and it handled itself better than he ever could.
That’s another drink I owe Crake.
He checked on Ashua and Silo. They still hadn’t managed to take care of the Rattletrap, and now they seemed to be chasing it back towards the train. In the next carriage along was the remaining autocannon, patiently waiting for its targets to stray within range.
Time to do something about that, he thought.
‘He’s heading for the train!’ Malvery called.
Silo swore in Murthian. Malvery didn’t understand the meaning, but he heard the disgust and hate in his voice. It surprised him. Silo wasn’t one for emotional outbursts, as far as the doctor could tell, but he was plenty mad about something.
The last Dak Rattletrap was proving to be a colossal pain in the arse. The driver was nothing less than incredible. Somehow, he’d managed to keep ahead of his pursuers while they chased him all over, and neither Pinn nor Malvery had been able to take him down with their gatlings.
A lucky shot from Pinn had dealt with the Rattletrap’s gunner, at least. He was sprawled across the back of the vehicle, tangled up in the roll cage. But despite Silo and Ashua’s best efforts to keep them away from the train, the Daks had given them the slip. A sudden turn, a burst of speed, and now they were on their way back towards their mates with the autocannon.
Malvery and Pinn were doing their best to make sure they didn’t get there, but the driver was a slippery bastard. He dodged and weaved, never keeping a straight line long enough to be pinned down, never coming close enough for an easy shot. With all the jolting, the dust and the general inaccuracy of the gatling guns, the best that Malvery could do was catch the Rattletrap with a bullet or two amid the spray.
The Dak on the passenger side was shooting out C sh do was ca between the seats while his companion concentrated on driving. Under the circumstances, his chances of hitting anything were close to zero.
Not close enough, as it turned out.
Malvery only noticed Pinn had been shot when the chubby pilot suddenly stopped firing his gatling. Malvery looked over at the other Rattletrap, which was speeding along to their right. Pinn was swaying slightly, his face grey and slack, wearing a faraway expression. Then he slumped against the side of the roll cage and went down like a sack of potatoes.
Malvery felt something cold clutch at him. Ashua hit the brakes, and suddenly their Rattletrap was falling behind while Silo and Malvery tore on towards the train.
‘Silo! Oi, Silo, get us back there! Pinn’s hurt!’
Silo didn’t reply. He was fixed on the vehicle ahead of him, his jaw set.
‘Silo! He’s been bloody shot! Get me back there!’ Malvery demanded.
‘Just shoot your damn gun, Doc!’ Silo snapped. ‘Ain’t nothin’ you can do that girl or Harkins can’t. We gonna go back after we done this feller.’
His shoulders were tensed and he boiled on the edge of fury. Malvery had only seen him like this once before. Then, they’d been forced to escort a Sammie through a factory full of rioting workers. Silo had ended up throwing the Sammie off a roof.
Malvery tutted and shook his head in resignation. He ought to be back there looking after that lad. Pinn might have the brains of a plank but he was a mate, and he didn’t deserve to get shot. The choice was out of his hands, though. Most choices were out of his hands. Had been ever since he started drinking. Best a man could do was go with it, and take what comes.