Stan Nicholls - Army of Shadows

The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog's crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled out.

"You go ahead!" Coilla shouted to Stryke.

He sprinted off.

Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta's guards fought with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.

Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.

A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.

Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta's zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling under the creature's oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the black chasm of its dead eyes.

The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head. But he couldn't break its iron grip. The zombie's abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and kicked, but the bear hug held.

Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking the zombie's side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature's arm. After three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.

The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke's direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into the thing's chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie's back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.

Haskeer appeared and darted between them. "It's mine," he growled, facing the creature. "You go!" Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.

Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.

Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.

He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.

It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body. It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this. An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.

He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.

Jennesta was swathed in a semitransparent aura that looked like air rippling on a hot day. It was shot through with a brilliant violet hue that shifted, melted and reformed itself. Stryke knew a mere sword was no match for such sorcery.

"Did you think to find me unprotected?" she said.

"It was worth a try," Stryke grated. He was fighting against his inbred deference for her, and his wariness of her powers.

She laughed. It was a disturbing sound. "Your race may be unparalleled fighters, but you hardly excel when it comes to thinking."

"If brainwork means something like you," he replied defiantly, "I'll stay dumb."

"Insolent cur!" She made a movement with her hand, as though lobbing an invisible ball.

Stryke was hit by a jolt as powerful as the shock he'd just recovered from. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.

"So you came here to kill me?" she added. Her tone made it sound conversational.

He said nothing.

"Or perhaps you hoped for a different prize," Jennesta went on. For a fraction of a second, and apparently involuntarily, her eyes flicked to a bulky silk pouch on the seat beside her.

Stryke hadn't noticed it before, and now he willed himself not to look at it. "Your death's the best prize I can think of."

"Then you really do lack imagination, dullard." She made the hand gesture again.

He took another punch of psychic force. The hurt inundated every cell in his body. He felt it in his bones, his teeth. And he knew he couldn't take much more; assuming she didn't simply kill him outright.

"Your view of the universe is so depressingly limited," she said. "You grasp no more than a sliver of the truth. If only you had the intellect to see how much more there is to reality."

Stryke thought that was an odd thing for her to say. But then, most of what she said had always struck him as bizarre. He held his silence.

"Why am I bothering?" Jennesta asked. "You and your kind have the acumen of worms. And to think I once believed that you, Captain Stryke, had the wit to rise above your animal state."

"You never showed it."

"You never earned my trust."

It was Stryke's turn to laugh, even if he risked a further jolt. "You talk as though your trust's a gem, and not a sham of paste and glass."

"What a poetic turn of phrase. For an animal. You could have been great, Stryke."

"I'm flattered."

"Low sarcasm. I shouldn't expect more. But what you're too dim to understand is that by your treachery you've traded my patronage for a life of struggle and hardship."

"We call it freedom."

"It's overrated," she sneered.

The carriage door was still open. Outside, the sound of fighting continued, but it was strangely faint, as if heard from a distance.

Stryke said the first thing that came into his head, purely to keep her engaged. "You might have the upper hand now, but — "

"Oh really. Foolishly, I expected more of you than empty threats and petty chatter. Let's not beat about the bush. Neither of us is mentioning the enormous basilisk in the room. The instrumentalities, dolt." She fleetingly glanced at the pouch again. He took that as confirming his hunch and tensed himself.

"What about them?"

She rolled her eyes. " ' What about them,' he asks. So you're happy that you no longer possess them, is that it? No answer? Perhaps a little encouragement's in order." She raised her hand.

Stryke sprang forward, snatched the pouch and dived out of the carriage. Thinking he'd be struck down at any instant, he ran towards Haskeer.

His sergeant had decapitated the zombie and was staring down at it. Even headless, the creature still showed signs of life, writhing and twitching in the dirt.

" Move it! " Stryke yelled. "Run!"

Haskeer fell in behind him.

Stryke looked back. He expected to see Jennesta coming out of the coach, but there was no sign of her. Up ahead Coilla, Dallog and the others were surveying the corpses of the troopers littering the road.

Loosening the drawstrings on the pouch, Stryke checked its contents. The instrumentalities were inside. Triumphant, he stuffed the pouch into his jerkin.

"Got them?" Coilla asked as he approached.

He gave her a thumbs-up.

" Company! " Dallog shouted, pointing with his sword.

A detachment of cavalry were heading their way from the direction of the barracks, and they were moving fast.

Stryke ordered a retreat. They ran into the trees and mounted hidden horses.