Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Time to make himself a hero. Emanda deserved nothing less.

The Manes came in a flood. The Century Knights were waiting for them.

They stood in a line, guns raised, in front of the massive stone fountain that formed the centrepiece of the sunken square. They'd had only seconds to organise themselves, but they did so quickly and smoothly at an order from Kedmund Drave. They were a well-oiled unit, disciplined and deadly. The Archduke's elite: the best of the best.

Frey and his crew stood with them.

When they first met the Knights in the square, Frey had half a mind to keep on running and let the Knights deal with the Manes at their back. At least they might slow the pursuit a bit before they were overwhelmed. But he'd made a snap decision, and, absurdly, decided to stay. He'd begun to feel a faint cameraderie with Bree and Grudge, enough that he'd feel like a rat for bailing out on them. Their paths had crossed several times over the last year and a half, and they'd saved his life in the past.

Maybe it was because he needed to do something honourable, because Trinica had treated him so dishonourably. Maybe it was just the pull of childhood fantasy. Every boy - and many girls - grew up wanting to be a Century Knight. Fighting alongside them came a close second.

Or maybe - and more likely - it was just because Samandra Bree was damned cute and he didn't like the idea of letting her get her face eaten by a Mane.

The horde hadn't expected resistance, perhaps. Certainly not on the scale they faced now. They came through the narrow bottleneck where the cobbled street entered the high-walled square. Over a dozen guns opened up on them, and they were mown down like wheat.

Frey and his men aimed and fired into the thrashing mass of Manes, hoping to hit whatever they could. The Knights, in contrast, were astonishingly accurate. Whenever Samandra Bree fired one of her twin shotguns, or Mordric Jask his large-calibre pistols, it was a headshot. Colden Grudge's autocannon was less precise, but he made up for it with his sheer destructive power. Each bolt tore through several Manes, smashing through limbs and ribs and skulls. They howled as they were shredded into bloody meat.

But the withering hail of bullets couldn't hold them back for long. One by one the defenders stopped to reload. For the Knights, it was a well-drilled manoeuvre accomplished with impressive speed. For Frey's crew, it was more a matter of fumbling the bullets into their chambers and trying not to drop any.

The Manes took advantage of the lull. They were relentless, leaping over their fallen, scrambling and slipping through the tumble of shattered bodies. The defenders couldn't catch them all, and the Manes began to break through the bottleneck and spread into the square.

'Bess!' said Frey. 'Get in there!'

Bess didn't need a second invitation. She thundered forward through the hail of bullets and crashed into the Mane horde. With her arms outstretched, she took up half of the width of the bottleneck. She scooped up the Manes and forced them back with sheer, unstoppable strength. The Manes scratched and bit at her, but it was like attacking a cliff face. With Bess narrowing the gap, the flow of Manes into the square was choked off.

Grissom and Jask turned their attention to those Manes that had made it through. They picked off their targets before they got within five metres of the line. The ghouls twisted and rolled to the ground, bearing holes in their foreheads.

Frey took a moment to reload, glancing around at his crew through the acrid haze of gunsmoke. Malvery and Silo were grim-faced. Crake was scared out of his wits. But it was Jez that concerned him. Did she regard the Manes with hatred, or did it pain her to kill them? Did she feel each death, or was she glad of the slaughter? He couldn't say, but he worried for her state of mind.

It was only moments before the flood began to overwhelm Bess. Even though her body blocked them, they clambered over her, or ducked beneath her huge arms. The area around the golem was piled with Mane casualties, but they showed no signs of abandoning their assault. If anything, the deaths of their fellows had increased their frenzy.

The dam burst a second time, and this time the weight of numbers was too great to withstand. The Manes poured into the square. The defender's gunfire became unfocused as their targets spread out, and more of them broke through as a result. The balance had tipped. They couldn't be held back.

'Stay together!' Drave shouted, more for the benefit of Frey's crew than the Knights.

The Knights chose their targets with icy precision and took them down. The air was a terrific percussion of rifles, shotguns and pistols, underpinned by the steady report of Grudge's autocannon and the artillery detonations from overhead. There was no use taking cover, since the Manes weren't firing back. This was a game of nerve. Crake had lost his: he was trembling visibly as he fired. Malvery was getting panicky, blasting every which way. But Frey and the others drew strength from the men and women at their side. They aimed and fired steadily, and though the breaking wave of Manes came closer and closer, they were made to pay dearly for every metre they gained.

But nothing could stop them.

Frey's pistol fired empty. No time to reload. He shoved it in his belt and drew his cutlass. He knew now they'd be overrun. The battle would go to close quarters.

Bring it on, then!

He was awash with adrenaline. His teeth were bared in a snarl. All the anger and disappointment and hate that had been inspired by Trinica's betrayal sharpened in that moment to a fine point. It didn't matter whether he lived or died. It just mattered that somebody paid.

Some of the others drew weapons, ready for hand-to-hand fighting. Kedmund Drave pulled out a huge two-handed sword. Others stuck to their shotguns or rifles. They'd use boots and gun butts to fend off the enemy long enough to get a point-blank shot in. To his right, Eldrew Grissom threw open his greatcoat, revealing an array of knives like the inside of a butcher's cupboard. He selected two gleaming cleavers.

'Choppin' time!' he yelled, with a crazed glint in his eye, and he went to work.

The Manes attacked all at once, jagged nails reaching out, mad faces behind them. Frey stepped to the fore, led by his cutlass. There was little he could do but surrender to its will. He could almost hear the singing of the daemon within as it took control, slashing in broad arcs, dismembering this and severing that. For his part, he simply concentrated on not getting hurt.

But for all the efforts of Frey and his crew, it was the Knights who held the Manes back. They moved like quicksilver, slipping fluidly between positions, always where they were needed. Whenever two Manes tried to take on Frey at the same time, there would be a Knight at his side to assist him, or one of his enemies would go down with a bullet in the brain. Even Drave and Grudge, who were more cumbersome in their heavy armour, seemed untouchable. They didn't have the speed of their companions, but they anticipated every strike and moved to counter it before it came. The Manes couldn't match them.

For a time, Frey lost himself. All thought disappeared in a bloody chaos of limbs and blades and teeth. His hands were spattered red. His breath rasped loud in his ears, heart pumping hard. His jaw clenched as he swung again and again, chopping away the grasping hands of the enemy. Fingernails raked his cheek. He found the owner, just as its head exploded, blown apart by somebody's shotgun.

When would it stop? When would they give up?

Behind him, he heard a cry. Crake. He risked a glance, and saw that one of the Manes had broken through. An awful, red-eyed, ragged thing. It had seized Crake's gun arm and was biting into the meat of his hand. Frey's blade came down on its neck. Crake staggered backwards, the thing's head still clamped tight to his flesh.