Ian Irvine - Chimaera

‘Lower it!’ he screeched, turning round and round.

‘He’s afraid,’ Ullii said wonderingly. And then she laughed. ‘The chief scrutator is afraid he’s going to die.’

‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ said Nish, who was beginning to think there might be the faintest chance to rescue the prisoners.

Their side of the deck, which was pitted with holes and smoking patches of canvas, was empty apart from the soldiers desperately trying to smother the cable fires. Belching black smoke kept driving them away and at once the fires sprang out anew. Officers ordered them back but the soldiers were becoming more reluctant every second.

The prisoners were crowded together in their pen, some shouting, some jeering, others watchfully silent. Their fate was all too clear once the cables burned through. Nish counted their guards – eleven. Far too many for him to deal with. His greatest fear was that the soldiers would be ordered to slay the prisoners before the amphitheatre was abandoned.

On the far edge, opposite the fires, a large ropework basket was being lowered to the deck. A group of witnesses rushed it and began fighting to get inside. A meagre, snake-like scrutator, probably Fusshte though it was difficult to be sure through the wreathing mist, roared at them to stay back. No one took any notice. Beyond it a lowered net had been commandeered by a group of robed mancers, who might have been able to control the crowd had they not been so intent on saving their own skins.

The mancers’ net rose jerkily into the air, pulling those inside into a compressed jumble of bodies with arms, legs and heads protruding through the meshes. At least Nish no longer had to worry about them. A scrutator was lifted, in a series of jerks, up into the smoky mist in her suspended chair. Nish didn’t recognise her.

The utter confusion gave Nish an idea. He didn’t think he could reproduce Fusshte’s sibilant tones, but he could probably do a passable imitation of Ghorr’s deeper voice and it might make a difference.

Crouching down so that he couldn’t be seen clearly, Nish put his hands around his mouth and roared. ‘Guard! To me. To me! ’

The men guarding the prisoners’ pen spun around, searching for their master. Ghorr had his good arm in the air and was still shouting for his chair, though from a distance it might well have seemed that he was crying for them to come and restore order.

‘To me, damn you,’ Nish yelled.

The guards conferred. Eight of them formed into lines, four by two, and marched in the direction of the chief scrutator. Off to Nish’s left, blue flames flared then ran up a cable for several spans. A horizontal stay rope gave with a ping; canvas snapped like a sail in a high wind. A woman shrieked, high and shrill.

Someone sang out, ‘It’s going!’

The beaters at the burning cable abandoned their posts and fled to the safe side of the deck. One man ran across a hole burned in the canvas and disappeared.

There was pandemonium among the witnesses. One of their guards dropped his weapons, ran to the nearest cable, kicked off his boots and went up it like a sailor up a mast. Others moved to join him.

‘Stop!’ shouted Ghorr.

The soldier kept climbing towards the air-dreadnought.

‘Captain,’ raged Ghorr, ‘take him down.’

The mist was thickening all the time and Nish couldn’t see who Ghorr was giving orders to, though he could see the soldier, who was still climbing desperately. The man looked down in terror, tried to pull himself out of the way of the bolt then threw up his arms and fell. Streaming mist cut off the scene, though Nish could well imagine what was going on. Ghorr was still shrilling orders but Nish could no longer make them out.

‘Now!’ Nish said urgently. ‘Ullii, could you –?’ He looked around. Ullii had vanished.

He cursed her under his breath, in a rueful sort of a way, though he should have been used to it by now. Fitting a bolt to his crossbow, Nish flitted from mist patch to mist patch, towards the prisoners’ pen.

Three guards remained, still covering the prisoners with their crossbows. They looked nervous and it wouldn’t take much for them to go on the rampage. How could he overcome them, all alone? He still had the naphtha flagon over his shoulder but didn’t dare use it. Like as not, such a blaze would kill everyone.

A soldier came running through the murk, calling out to the guards. He gasped out an order then turned back. The first guard nodded and returned to the pen, hefting his crossbow as if to shoot.

Nish aimed at the centre of the soldier’s back and fired. The soldier grunted and fell. The others whirled, raising their weapons. Nish lay still, carefully fitting a bolt to his bow but not daring to wind back the cranks, for the sound would give him away instantly.

They were looking in his direction and must know roughly where the shot had come from. The leading soldier saw him, aimed and fired in one smooth, well-trained movement.

Nish threw himself to one side and the bolt carved a painful streak down the outside of his thigh. He came to his knees, frantically winding his cranks as the second soldier brought up his weapon. Nish squeezed the lock but the bolt, which hadn’t been seated properly, shot out sideways and landed on the deck beyond his reach.

Nish looked up despairingly. The prisoners pressed up against the barbed ropes, staring at him. He could sense them willing him on but there was nothing he could do.

‘It’s the artificer,’ said the first soldier. ‘Take his weapon, Ragge. Chief Scrutator Ghorr will pay a fortune for him alive.’

‘But not necessarily whole,’ grinned Ragge.

‘Ghorr didn’t say anything about whole.’

Ragge drew his knife, a long, curving blade that would have been ideal for gutting a buffalo. ‘He won’t mind if I take a little trophy. It’ll go for a pretty price in the markets when we get back.’

Nish slid one hand into his pocket for another bolt.

‘Move your hand again and my friend here will take it off at the wrist,’ said Ragge. ‘He’s the best shot in the Guard.’

Nish palmed the bolt but kept his hand where it was. The soldier could shoot him before he got it out of his pocket. Ragge’s eyes were red-veined, his mouth twisted in a sick kind of malice. Such were the people that Ghorr gathered around him. No man could serve such a monster without having his own hefty dose of evil.

‘Get up,’ said Ragge.

Nish came to his knees and tried to rise.

‘Stay just like that,’ grinned the guard.

‘You like them on their knees, don’t you,’ said the other. ‘Come on – this place could collapse any minute.’

‘It’ll be a while yet. Its strength comes from the cross-stays, not the canvas.’ Ragge came towards Nish, the knife held low. He would strike upwards to maim, and it would be a difficult blow to evade.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Nish saw the most astonishing sight – a tall figure flying over the fence of the prisoners’ pen as if fired from a catapult. Yellow hair streaming out behind her, Irisis came down, hands still bound, and kicked with both feet at the guard with the crossbow.

The blow would have been perfect except that she hadn’t been thrown quite far enough. She didn’t strike the soldier in the back of the neck, as she’d intended, but between the shoulders.

The impact drove him to the deck, where he landed so hard that the crossbow went skidding across the canvas. Unfortunately it didn’t go off.

‘Look out!’ Nish cried, rolling out of the way of the knife.

Irisis landed awkwardly, bounced on her feet and went for the fallen crossbow. Ragge had spun around at the melee. He ran towards his comrade, then turned to Irisis when it became evident she would reach the crossbow first, though it was moot whether she could use it effectively with bound hands.