Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

Grephen was becoming short of breath. ‘That . . . that piece of paper doesn’t prove anything! A forged piece of rubbish!’

There were many tales told about Kedmund Drave. Like all the Century Knights, he had his own kind of legend. One of the less unpleasant stories claimed that he could tell if a man was lying just by looking into his eyes. He looked now: a penetrating gaze, boring into the Duke.

Grephen backed off a step. ‘You’re going to take the word of a convict over that of a Duke?’

‘A Duke who still hasn’t told me why he’s attempting to execute these prisoners when he knows they should have gone to the Archduke for trial.’

‘This is ridiculous!’ Grephen cried, flailing. ‘I’m not answering to you! I don’t have to answer to anyone but the Archduke in my own duchy.’

‘We act for the Archduke,’ said Drave. ‘So you answer to me!’

‘Come on, Grephen!’ Frey jeered. ‘Tell him why you want me dead! Tell him about Orkmund and all your pirate friends!’

‘And you!’ Grephen cried, thrusting a shaky finger at him. ‘I’ve had quite enough out of you.’ He looked at the executioner, who was still standing on the podium, holding Frey’s cutlass. ‘Kill him!’ Grephen ordered.

Two lever-action shotguns spun out from beneath Samandra Bree’s long coat, and fixed on the executioner. ‘Raise that sword and you’re the first to die,’ she said.

The executioner stayed where he was, his gaze flicking between the Duke and the twin barrels aimed at his face. Frey was in no doubt which would prove most persuasive.

The Duke’s guards were stirring uneasily now. Their loyalty was to their Duke, and they didn’t like to see him bullied. Colden Grudge, sensing the tension, flung back his cloak to allow himself easy access to the double-bladed hand-axes hanging at his belt.

‘Your Grace, I think you had better come with me,’ said Drave, ‘until we can verify your innocence.’

‘You’re arresting me?’ Grephen gasped. He looked left and right, eyes bulging, a cornered animal searching for a way out. The elderly judge had already retreated, distancing himself from the Duke.

‘Your Grace!’ Thade snapped, seeing the panic on his companion’s face. ‘Calm yourself!’

‘I’m requesting the pleasure of your company on the Archduke’s behalf,’ Drake insisted steadily. ‘You won’t be locked up. We just need to be sure you aren’t going anywhere. If these allegations are groundless, you’ve nothing to fear.’

‘Nothing to fear?’ he screeched. ‘I’m a Duke! Spit and blood, I’m a Duke of Vardia! You can’t treat me like this in my own house!’ He hesitated, gaping, as if shocked by the enormity of what he was about to do. Then he turned to his captain of the guard and shouted: ‘Seize them! Arrest those Knights!’

Chaos erupted in the courtyard. The militia surged in on the Knights. Samandra Bree’s shotguns bellowed, and two men flew backwards in a cloud of blood. Colden Grudge swung his axes, severing limbs and fingers. Kedmund Drave moved faster than his bulk and armour suggested he could, slipping out of the grasp of two soldiers, coming up with pistols blazing. In seconds, the space in front of Frey’s makeshift gallows became a battlefield as the militia tried to overwhelm the Century Knights, and the Knights retaliated with lethal force.

The executioner was standing agape. Frey turned to him, holding out his hands.

‘Cut the ropes!’ he said. It was addressed to the cutlass rather than the man holding it.

The blade moved of its own accord, slashing through the air and dividing the rope between Frey’s wrists. As soon as his hands were free, the cutlass somersaulted from the executioner’s hands and into his. An instant later, Frey had the tip at the confused executioner’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged in incomprehension. Frey delivered a good, solid kick square between the legs. His eyes bulged even further as he sank gently to the ground.

Pinn was cheering from inside the cage. Crake shouted at Frey and pointed. ‘Dracken’s running!’ he cried.

Frey looked. The melee in the courtyard had become fiercer. The Knights were many times outnumbered but they still wouldn’t go down. Several bloodied bodies lay on the ground. The militia had given up trying to seize anyone and were just trying to kill them now, but their rifles were unwieldy in such close quarters. Some had reverted to pistols and knives. The Knights slipped between the bullets and blades with practised savagery, and their opponents couldn’t lay a hand on them.

Beyond it all, Frey could see Trinica Dracken. She was fleeing towards the door that led into the barracks building, away from the courtyard. Duke Grephen was backing away from the knot of men struggling with the Knights. He looked dazed, startled by the carnage he’d unleashed. Inadvertently, he strayed too close to the cage where the Ketty Jay’s crew were imprisoned, and Malvery reached out and grabbed him with his thick arms, hugging him close to the bars.

‘I’ve got this one, Cap’n!’ Malvery yelled, as Frey launched off the platform in pursuit of Trinica. He sprinted across the courtyard as she disappeared through the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gallian Thade running for the same door. The aristocrat had obviously decided that Trinica had the right idea and had abandoned his Duke in favour of a quick escape.

The two of them raced across the courtyard, and for a moment it looked as if they’d reach their destination at the same time. But then Frey saw Kedmund Drave raise his pistol and fire through the press of bodies that surrounded him. Thade’s sprint became a stumble, tripping forward under his own momentum. His face went slack, and he crashed to the ground in a heap of dust, his fine jacket holed and stained with blood.

Frey ran on, fearing a bullet in his own back at any moment, but Drave was too busy saving himself to spare more than a split second to deal with anyone else. Pinn and Malvery cheered him on as he flew through the open doorway, out of the courtyard and into the cool stone corridors of the barracks.

Trinica was just disappearing around a corner, and he gave chase. Her compass and charts were the only bargaining chips he had; if she got away with them, he and his crew would still hang for their part in the crime. As he rounded the corner, he glimpsed her again—her black-clad figure, her roughly cropped white hair. Hearing his footsteps, she looked back at him. Her eyes showed him nothing, not even surprise. She dodged around another corner and was lost from sight.

Frey sprinted, arms pumping, his cutlass cutting the air. The barracks were deserted, and the walls rang with the hollow echoes of his bootsteps. He swung round the corner after Trinica.

She was standing there, a few metres away, her pistol aimed at his chest. Frey felt a moment of dreadful surprise, and then she shot him.

The gunshots were deafening. He didn’t even have time to skid to a halt before she pulled the trigger twice in succession, shooting at virtually point-blank range. Frey’s momentum was violently checked. He tottered on his heels and fell onto his back.

Trinica had dismissed him before he’d even hit the floor. She holstered her pistol and ran on, not interested in wasting a moment of her escape on sentiment.

Frey heard her footsteps disappear up the corridor. His chest heaved. His brain and body gradually slipped out of a state of shock.

He got up on his elbows. He felt around his chest in disbelief.

There were no holes in his shirt. He was unharmed. He got to his feet, looking around himself as if there might be an answer lying there.

I’m not dead, he thought, dumbly. Why aren’t I dead?

There was only one thing he could think of. He looked down at his hand, which was still holding the cutlass.