Chris Wooding - Retribution Falls

The first volley cut down half of Orkmund’s men, most of them with their revolvers still half out of their holsters. The crew of the Ketty Jay ducked around the corner as the answering fire came, but it was mostly directed at Bess, who went stamping up the corridor, roaring as she did so. Those who hadn’t been killed in the initial volley stumbled backwards in the face of the metal giant, tripping over the chests, and scrambled to their feet to flee. Frey could hear Orkmund shouting something incoherent at them, urging them to stand and fight; but then there was a terrific explosion from above, and the calamitous sound of falling stone.

Dust billowed out of the corridor and engulfed his crew where they hid. Frey coughed into his fist and looked around the corner. It took some seconds for the dust to clear, but when it did he saw Bess standing there, dirty but unharmed. A section of the ceiling had caved in, burying all but one of the chests. Of Orkmund and his men, there was nothing to be seen. They’d either fled or been buried. Frey didn’t care which.

What he did care about was the red-lacquered chest that lay near Bess’s feet. A chest with a beautiful branch-and-leaf intaglio on the lid and a clasp in the shape of a silver wolf’s head. He ran to it and tugged at the lid. Locked. Stepping back, he blasted the clasp away with his revolver.

There would be no mistakes. He had to be sure.

The others had gathered around him as he knelt down and threw open the chest. Inside was a golden mass of ducats. Thousands upon thousands of coins. Even in the dust-hazed air, it seemed to him that they glimmered.

Bess leaned in over his shoulder to look. She cooed as she saw the wealth within.

Frey could hardly breathe. He had it at last. They had it at last. After all the years of scrabbling in the dirt, they were rich.

He stepped back, and looked at the joyous faces of his crew, transfixed by the sight of more money than they’d ever dreamed of.

‘Bess, pick that up,’ he said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

Frey didn’t hear the explosion. It took some seconds for his stunned senses to recover, but even then, all he could remember was the sensation of being squashed from above by an enormous force, like an insect trodden on by an invisible boot. After that, there was the taste of grit in his mouth, the stinging in his eyes, and the high-pitched whine in his ears, like the squeal of a turbine.

He looked around. Everything was muffled and clouded. The air was grey with pulverised stone. He was on his hands and knees. Ahead of him, what had once been a corridor was now a wall of broken stone.

A shell, he thought, numbly. Orkmund’s stronghold must have taken a direct hit.

Suddenly he was being pulled to his feet. He looked up dazedly to see Silo holding his arm. The Murthian was saying something, but he couldn’t hear. Silo stood him up and spoke with exaggerated volume and clarity, but to Frey it still sounded like it came from a great distance through the cottony pressure in his ears.

‘Cap’n? You hear me?’

‘A little bit,’ he replied. His voice sounded strange in his own head.

‘You hurt?’

Frey checked he had all his arms and legs. ‘Don’t think so.’

There was a faint yell. Silo looked towards the rubble that had filled the corridor. Frey followed his gaze.

‘Hey!’ It was Malvery. Had it not been, Frey probably wouldn’t have heard him, but the doctor’s bellow could wake the dead.

‘Doc!’ Frey cried. ‘You okay?’

‘Cap’n! We’re fine over here. Cuts and bruises. Silo with you?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘Okay!’

The conversation faltered. The dust was settling, and now Frey could see the section of ceiling and wall which had collapsed into the corridor. Frey and Silo had been lagging behind, guarding the rear of the retreating group. Frey stared at the tons of rubble in front of him, and thought how lucky they were that nobody had been beneath it.

‘Wait there!’ cried Malvery. Frey glimpsed him momentarily through a gap in the rubble. ‘We’re going to get Bess to dig through to you!’

Silo grabbed Frey’s shoulder and shook his head. He pointed up at the ceiling. ‘Ain’t a good plan, Cap’n.’

Frey caught on. ‘Silo says no!’ he cried. ‘The roof could come down on you.’

Malvery considered that for a moment. ‘I expect that’d hurt quite a bit,’ he said.

‘Go on to the Ketty Jay. We’ll find another way round.’

‘You sure?’

‘You’ve got the treasure with you?’

‘Safe and sound.’

‘Get it on board. We’ll get there as fast as we can.’

‘Right-o.’

‘And Malvery? If they start shelling us again, you tell Jez to get her airborne and get you out of there.’

‘Without you, Cap’n?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’d rather choke on my own shit,’ Malvery replied cheerily. ‘See you on board.’

Frey shook his head to clear it of the ringing. It was about as effective as he’d expected. At least his hearing was getting less muffled with time.

He picked up his revolver from the ground where it had fallen, and thumbed in the direction they’d come. ‘That way, I suppose.’

They hurried back down the corridor and through a doorway, into a crude kitchen. They could see an exterior window, but even though it had been smashed by the explosion it was too small to get through. Frey led the way into a simple eating-hall with benches and a fireplace. He stayed close to the exterior wall, hoping for a door, but room after room confounded him. Eventually, they came out into another corridor, like the one they had left.

‘Damn it, how hard can it be to get out of a building?’ he complained, and that was when they ran into Orkmund.

He must have heard them an instant before they came around the corner, and that small warning meant he was faster than they were. He was emerging from a doorway as they came into sight, carrying a small jewellery box in his arms. Frey and Silo skidded to a halt as Orkmund dropped the box and pulled a revolver. By the time their own guns were halfway raised, Orkmund already had his levelled.

‘Drop ’em!’ he cried, and they froze.

Frey thought desperately, but he couldn’t force an idea through the fog in his head. This wasn’t a war: there was no question of taking prisoners. If they dropped their guns, he’d shoot them. If they drew, he’d shoot them.

‘Drop ’em!’ Orkmund shouted again, allowing no time for deliberation.

Frey looked at Silo. Silo looked back at him. And in that moment, Frey realised what the Murthian was thinking.

He could only shoot one of them. And Silo had decided it was going to be him.

‘Don’t—’ Frey began, but it was too late. Silo moved, raising his revolver to fire. Orkmund reacted, shifting his aim to Silo. Frey folowed Silo’s lead, an instant behind him: but Orkmund had already committed to his target.

Three shots fired, almost simultaneously. Orkmund fired first, and his bullet took Silo in the chest. Silo’s own shot went wild. Frey’s, hastily aimed, clipped the side of Orkmund’s revolver and sent it spinning away with a spark and a metallic whine.

Silo fell to the ground. Orkmund hesitated, surprised to find that his gun was no longer in his hand. Frey aimed square at his head and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. He was out of bullets.

Orkmund lunged at him, drawing a cutlass from his belt. Frey threw his revolver down as his own cutlass leaped from its scabbard, flying into his hand, the blade moving of its own accord. The two cutlasses met hard with a ringing chime. Orkmund swung again, pressing the attack, slicing at his ribs and then his thigh. The daemon-thralled blade parried both, blurringly fast, moving with a speed far beyond anything Frey would have been capable of alone. Orkmund was an expert swordsman; Frey had an expert sword.