Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [174]
A particularly heavy concussion shook the building and sent plate-size flakes of plaster raining from the ceiling. Frey stumbled to his knees, and Silo caught his arm as he fell. As he was helped to his feet, he met the Murthian’s eyes. Both of them were thinking the same thing. They should get out of here now, while they still had the Ketty Jay and their lives.
Just this last thing, Frey told himself shakily. Our luck’ll hold.
Silo saw the resolve in Frey’s gaze and gave him the tiniest of nods, then reached out one long-fingered hand and squeezed his shoulder in reassurance.
Frey found himself suddenly grateful for the constant presence of the engineer in his life. Though Frey rarely even noticed him, Silo was always there, a silent strength, working invisibly behind the scenes to keep the Ketty Jay running. Frey realized how important Silo had been to him all these years, a friend who asked for nothing but who would offer unquestioning support whenever it was needed. Silo had saved his life after the ambush in Sammie territory and been with him through all the bitterness that followed. Frey had never wanted a confidant; he wanted someone who he felt would never betray him, no matter what. That was Silo.
Driven by an absurd and overwhelming urge, he hugged his engineer. Silo stiffened in surprise.
“Rot and damnation, Cap’n, this isn’t exactly the time!” Malvery cried.
Frey withdrew, his face coloring. “Right,” he said. “You’re right.”
A few more turns brought them to the vault. It was exactly where the pirate had told them it would be. Unfortunately, it was where most of his friends were too.
The vault door was standing open as they arrived, and a dozen pirates were busy carrying out chests full of treasure. Orkmund himself was there, too, directing his men. He was more physically imposing in person than he’d been from a distance: muscular and tattooed, with a bald head and a boxer’s face.
Frey had wanted to get the drop on them, but with Bess in tow it was impossible. By the time they’d rounded the corner, the men were alerted. Only the puzzling nature of the metallic clanks and leathery creaks had stopped them from pulling out their guns. But now the golem stepped into sight, with Frey and his crew behind her. Some of the men went white and backed away, dropping their end of the chests. Others let their burden fall and drew guns. But Frey’s crew had their guns out already, and at the first sign of violence they started shooting.
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 backward 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 silver clasp in the shape of a 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.