Stan Nicholls - Army of Shadows

A pall of silent, disbelieving shock descended. Everyone, captives and crew, seemed spellbound. For one stomach-churning moment Spurral thought she was alone, that none of the others would move to support her.

Then Kalgeck shouted, "Now! Now! "

There was an explosion of movement and sound.

Dwarfs and men were shouting. Some screamed. Spurral saw three dwarfs piling into a crewman, pummelling him with their improvised hatchets. Somebody tugged free the man's sword and turned it on him. Another crewman staggered past with a female dwarf clinging to his back and repeatedly stabbing him with a seized dagger. Yet another was borne aloft by half a dozen captives and hurled yelling over the side. One of the henchmen beside Salloss Vant took a faceful of shot. He sank, writhing, to his knees. Everywhere there was chaos.

Kalgeck had got hold of the cutlass from the second man Spurral downed. He was no master with a sword, but the energy of his rage made up for the lack. Bellowing inarticulately, he laid into a knot of crewmen already besieged by his fellow islanders. Forced back to the rail, they were desperately trying to fend off their attackers.

Taken unawares, the Gatherers were faring badly. But Spurral knew the element of surprise wouldn't last long, and if the dwarfs didn't capitalise on it straightaway, they never would. Vant was wading into the dwarfs, swinging his sword like a madman. Spurral determined to settle with him.

She hadn't gone six paces when one of the crew blocked her way. He was armed with a cutlass and bent on stopping her. Spurral would have been happier meeting him with a staff, but she was as comfortable with a sword as with just about any other weapon. And now the bloodlust was on her. She charged.

He was strong. When their pealing blades collided it sent a jolt through her. The blows they exchanged were harsh, like rock on rock and just as unyielding. Despite her strapping dwarfish build, Spurral was nimbler, which kept her from reach. But her opponent was the single-minded sort and came on relentlessly. He was good at blocking her thrusts too, frustrating every attempt at breaking his guard.

They were close to stalemate when chance intervened. Spotting a crewman in the rigging, several dwarfs targeted him with their slingshots. The stinging bombardment made him lose his grip. Screaming, he plummeted to the deck, landing with a bone-shattering crash just behind Spurral's foe. It was enough of a distraction to make him turn, simultaneously dipping his guard.

Spurral didn't hesitate. She ran at him, cutlass at arm's length. The momentum took the blade deep into his chest. He went down heavily, falling backwards, the force of his collapse whipping the sword out of her hand. Thudding her boot on the corpse, she wrenched it free.

She straightened, panting, with sweat trickling from her brow. When she looked up, Salloss Vant was standing in front of her, bloody cutlass in hand.

He wore a demonic expression. His eyes burned like searing coals. When he spoke, he struggled to get the words out through his choking wrath. "You… are going… to… die. "

"You can try," she replied, trying to keep the foreboding out of her voice.

Done with words, he bellowed and came at her.

Vant's rage swamped any finesse at swordplay he might have possessed. He hurtled at Spurral like a maddened bull. And now she saw that in addition to his cutlass he brandished a long-bladed knife. He swung the weapons like some kind of demented juggler, smearing the air with a metal haze.

Spurral hastily withdrew, trying to stay supple and anticipate where and how he might strike. An impossible task when facing someone as crazed as Vant, she soon realised. All she could do was keep moving. It was a strategy with limited value: inevitably he closed in on her and she was forced to engage.

The impact of the first blow she blocked had her staggering. The second came close to putting her down. She retreated once more, just a few steps this time, then feigned going in again. It was intended to wrong-foot him. Instead, she had to quickly duck as his blade whistled over her head.

A cacophony of yells, screams and clashing blades served as background.

All around them, dwarfs and Gatherers battled. The surprise element had more momentum than Spurral guessed, and the islanders were driving home their advantage. Taken unprepared, dead and wounded crewmen littered the deck, or fought desperate rear-guard actions. Some of the crew, those from the night watch, had been sleeping when the rebellion broke out. Their awakening was rude.

Not that the dwarfs had it all their own way. They were facing hardened brigands and, as proof, the bodies of their dead and wounded were nearly as plentiful.

Avoiding two blades wielded by someone demented with fury was taxing Spurral. Already she was less light on her feet, and her arms were starting to feel leaden. Taking the offensive, she opted to rush Vant, sweeping her sword like a scythe. It was his turn to swerve. He moved just fast enough to elude her low swipe. His anger further heightened, he was back on the offensive without pause. Another round of battering followed, rattling Spurral's bones.

It was shaping up as less than an even match, and Spurral knew she had to find a different strategy or lose. The thought occurred that if she couldn't change the way he fought, perhaps she could change where. She turned and ran. Bellowing, he dashed after her.

She headed for one of the few parts of the ship she was familiar with. That meant leaping over corpses and skirting fights. At one point a Gatherer tried to bar her path. She deflected his cutlass on the run, and left him to cope with a trio of dwarfs closing in at his rear.

Spurral arrived panting at the galley door. It was half open. She kicked it in, Vant close behind. Inside, she was relieved to find the place empty, and raced to the interior. A second later he crashed in behind her.

"You little freak!" he screamed, lips foaming. "Stand and take what's coming!"

"You want me," she hissed, "you come and get me." It was a bold challenge; he was between her and the only way out.

Her hope was that the restricted space would cramp his movements and perhaps give her, with the smaller frame, a slight edge. A bonus was that there were plenty of potential weapons in the galley. Or rather, missiles. She grabbed an iron cooking pot and lobbed it at him. It fell short, clattering at his feet, and Vant furiously kicked it aside. He began to advance. Spurral took to bombarding him with anything that came to hand. She threw kettles, pans, a wooden mallet, skillets, flagons, trenchers and a heavy ladle. Several of the objects struck him, but he seemed oblivious to any hurt they might have caused. The only obvious effect was that his vehemence rose to even greater heights. She started to wonder if anything would stop him.

There being nothing else within easy reach to throw, she braced herself for his onslaught. Oblivious to the broken crockery and utensils underfoot, Vant stormed her way. She stood her ground. There was little choice: the narrow, windowless galley's farthest wall was no more than ten paces behind her.

Spurral had to hold her sword two-handed to hang on to it, such was the energy of the pounding he delivered. She managed, just, to stop any of his passes getting through, but her every attempt at turning her defence into an attack was thwarted. He staved her off with almost contemptuous ease. Despite her resolve to stand firm, the sheer power of his pummelling was forcing her to retreat. And she knew that if her back touched the wall her chances of survival would be vanishingly slim.

Desperation breeds ingenuity. Or insane recklessness. Something she noticed out of the corner of her eye, and the idea it gave her, could have fallen into either category. They had drawn level with the two largest kilns. Their fires had recently been banked, and the water in the massive cauldrons they supported was boiling vigorously. The clouds of steam they gave off misted the room. Condensation ran down the walls and dripped from the ceiling.