Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

Frey had planned to avoid the rush and leave in the morning, since his cargo wasn’t nearly as perishable as fresh fish, but now he was glad of the chaos. It would provide cover for their departure.

They passed the gas-lamps that marked the edge of the pad and wended their way towards the Ketty Jay. Crews laboured in the dazzling shine of their aircrafts’ lights, long shadows blasted across the tarmac by the dark hulks that loomed above them. Thrusters rumbled as the freighter overhead switched to its prothane engines and began pushing away from the coast. The air was heavy with the smell of fish and the tang of the sea.

‘Harkins, Pinn. Get to your craft and get up there,’ said Frey. ‘Harkins, I know you’re drunk but that’s my Firecrow and if you crash it I’ll stuff you into your own arsehole and bowl you into the sea. Clear?’

Harkins belched, saluted, and staggered away. Pinn scurried off towards his Skylance without a word. The mention of the Century Knights had intimidated him enough that he was glad to get out of there.

Silo was standing at the bottom of the Ketty Jay’s cargo ramp when Frey, Malvery and Crake arrived. He was idly smoking a roll-up cigarette made from an acrid Murthian blend of herbs. As they approached, he spat into his hand and crushed it out on his palm.

‘Where’s Jez?’ Frey demanded.

‘Quarters.’

‘Good. We’re going.’

‘Cap’n.’

Silo joined the others as they headed up the ramp and into the cargo hold. The hold was steeped in gloom as always, stacked high with crates that were lashed untidily together. The reek of fish was overpowering in here.

Frey was making for the lever to raise the cargo ramp when a gravelly voice called out:

‘Make another move and everybody dies.’

They froze. Coming up the cargo ramp, revolvers in both hands, was a figure they all knew and had hoped to never see. The most renowned of all the Century Knights. The Archduke’s merciless attack dog: Kedmund Drave.

He was a barrel-chested man in his late forties, his clumsily assembled face scarred along the cheek and throat. Silver-grey hair was clipped close to his scalp, and he wore a suit of dull crimson armour, expertly moulded to the contours of his body by the Archduke’s master artisans. A thick black cloak displayed the Knights’ insignia in red, and the hilt of his two-handed sword could be seen rising behind his shoulder.

‘Back away from that lever,’ he commanded Frey. One revolver was trained on him; the other covered the rest of the crew. ‘Get over with your friends.’

Frey obliged. He’d sobered up fast. The effects of the alcohol had been cancelled by the chill shock of adrenaline. He wracked his brains frantically to think of a way out of this, because he knew one thing for sure: if Kedmund Drave took him in, he’d swing from the gallows.

‘Guns!’ Drave snapped, as he herded them together. ‘Knives. All of it.’

They disarmed, throwing their weapons down in a small heap in front of them. Drake looked them over critically.

‘Step back. Against the crates.’

They did as they were told.

‘Now. Who’s this Jez I heard you mention?’

‘She’s the navigator,’ Frey replied.

Drave glanced at the stairs leading out of the cargo hold. Deciding whether it was worth the risk of going up and getting her.

‘Anyone else?’

‘No,’ said Frey.

Drave took a sudden step towards them and pressed the muzzle of his revolver to Crake’s forehead. ‘If you’re lying, I’ll blow his brains out!’

Crake whimpered softly. He’d had just about enough of people putting guns to his head.

‘There’s not another soul on board!’ Frey said. He started with himself, and then pointed to each of the crew in turn. ‘Pilot. Engineer. Doctor. Navigator is in her quarters. You’ve got a full crew here. This one . . .’ he waved at Crake, ‘he’s just along for the ride.’

‘The others? The outflyers?’

‘Already gone.’

Drave glared at him, then took the revolver off Crake and backed away to a safer distance.

‘Both of them?’

‘Already gone,’ Frey repeated, shrugging. ‘They took off when they heard the Knights were on the case. Could be halfway to anywhere by now. We’re all alone here.’

Deep in the shadows between the piles of crates, two tiny lights glimmered. There was the heavy thump of a footstep and a rustle of chain mail and leather. Drave spun around to look behind him, and the colour drained from his face.

‘Well, unless you count Bess,’ Frey added, and the golem burst from the darkness with a metallic roar.

Drave’s reactions saved him. The armour of the Century Knights was legendarily light and strong, made using secret techniques in the Archduke’s own forges, and it slowed him not at all as he flung himself aside to avoid Bess’s crushing punch. He hit the ground in a roll and came up with both revolvers blazing. Bess flinched and recoiled as the bullets ricocheted from her armour and punched through her leather skin, but the assault did nothing more than enrage her. She bellowed and swept another punch at Drave, who jumped backwards to avoid it.

As soon as the Knight was distracted, the crew scattered. Frey dived for the guns, came up with Malvery’s shotgun in his hands and squeezed the trigger. As he did so, he realised he’d forgotten to prime it first. He hoped the doctor had been careless enough to keep a round in the chamber.

He had. Drave saw the danger, raised his pistol, and was a split second from firing when Frey hit him full in the chest. The impact blasted him off his feet. He landed hard on the cargo ramp and rolled helplessly down it and off the end.

Silo lunged across the hold and raised the lever to close the cargo ramp. Bess started to run down it, chasing the fallen Knight, but Crake shouted after her. She stopped, somewhat reluctantly, and settled for guarding the closing gap. Drave was already trying to pick himself up off the ground. He was groggy but otherwise unharmed, saved by his chestplate.

Frey had bolted for the stairs that led up to the main passageway before the cargo ramp had even closed. He sprinted into the cockpit, past Jez, who was just opening the door to her quarters.

‘Was that gunfire?’ she asked.

He leaped into his chair and punched in the ignition code, then boosted the aerium engines to full. The Ketty Jay gave a dolorous groan as its tanks filled and began to haul the craft skyward. He could hear gunfire outside over the sound of the prothane thrusters: Drave shooting uselessly at the hull. The dark aircraft that shared the landing pad sank from view as they lifted into the night sky.

‘Cap’n?’ Jez enquired, from the doorway of the cockpit. ‘Are we in trouble?’

‘Yes, Jez,’ he said. ‘We’re in trouble.’

Then he hit the thrusters and the Ketty Jay thundered, tearing away across the docks and racing out to sea.

It was a still day. Light flakes of snow drifted from a sky laden with grey cloud. The silence was immense.

Jez stood on the edge of the small landing pad, wrapped up in pelts, holding a cup of cocoa between her furred mittens. She’d bought her new arctic attire soon after arriving. Her meagre possessions had been left behind in her room at the lodging-house in Scarwater. Truth be told, despite the temperature, she didn’t need to wear anything at all. The cold didn’t seem to affect her nowadays. But it was essential to keep up appearances: her safety depended on it. Anyone in their right mind would kill her if they knew what she was.

The landing pad was set on a raised plateau above a great, icy expanse. On the horizon, a range of ghostly mountains lay, blued by distance. A herd of snow-hogs were trekking across the plain.