The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [185]
Panic crept in at the edges of his thoughts. They’d never outrun their pursuit. The Manes were faster and wouldn’t tire. They’d be caught, and then there would be the teeth and filthy claws and—worse, perhaps—the Invitation.
I don’t want to be like them! I’m too damned handsome to be a ghoul!
He’d sell himself dearly, if it came to that. He wouldn’t let them take him alive.
The street dipped ahead of them, heading into a sunken square surrounded by towering rows of merchants’ offices and banks. Gunfire and the dull thump of an autocannon sounded from within the square. Frey’s heart lifted. A squadron of Ducal Militia? Whatever it was, it was hope. At least the militia was liable to be on their side. And they had a big gun.
He poured on the speed and burst into the square just behind Malvery. Scattered Mane corpses lay about, a few citizens among them. The crowd that had passed Frey earlier were scattering in different directions, dividing between the square’s various exits. Striding through their midst were five figures Frey recognized.
Samandra Bree, Colden Grudge, Eldrew Grissom, Mordric Jask. And, at their head, the bulky, grizzled figure of Kedmund Drave, the Archduke’s most feared troubleshooter.
Frey had hoped for a squadron of militia. He got five Century Knights. Given the choice, he’d have taken this option any day.
He staggered to a halt in front of Samandra. She tipped her tricorn hat back with the barrel of a shotgun and gave him a dazzling smile.
“How’s this, then? You again?”
“Yeah,” he panted. “It’s me.” He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. “And I brought some friends.”
Samandra looked past him at the squealing horde of Manes piling down the street toward the square. “So you did.”
THE BATTLE OVER SAKKAN—HARKINS Is PUT UPON—EMANDA—MANY MANES—“CHOPPIN’ TIME!”
he Navy frigates plowed on toward the city, shedding fighter craft like glittering shards. Windblades streaked away ahead of the flotilla, joining up in formation as they raced to engage the enemy. The dreadnoughts were still out of range of the frigates’ artillery, but that would change in a matter of minutes. The battle was about to begin.
Harkins kept to the edges of the battle zone, palms clammy and mouth dry. The Manes ignored him, as they ignored all the aircraft that were fleeing Sakkan. But Harkins wasn’t fleeing. He was waiting for the Windblades to arrive. If he couldn’t defend Jez on the ground, he could at least defend her in the air.
The dreadnoughts had risen away from the city streets and were readying themselves to meet the attack. They kept no formation that Harkins could recognize, but there was still an unmistakable coordination in their movements. They shifted and circled in perfect sync. It was a fluid defensive strategy that kept them moving, kept them separated, and made them difficult targets.
Harkins listened to the Firecrow’s engines. He concentrated on the feel of the flight stick in his hand, the reassuring certainty of the instruments on his dash, the press of the seat against his back. It helped steel his nerve. He needed to slow his heartbeat, to fight the tightness in his chest and the sickness in his stomach. To overcome the terror of the battle to come.
Even the smell of the cockpit made him feel safe, the stink of his own sweat and the urine soaked into his trousers. Except that, every now and then, he still caught the scent of cat musk.
No. Just his imagination. He was all alone. Even the voices of his crew had gone silent. He’d heard gunshots and muffled voices, and a scuffle, and something bellowing, which was probably Bess. After that, he didn’t recognize any of the speakers, except one that he thought might have been that stinking bastard Grist. But wherever the earcuffs were now, they weren’t with Jez. He could only hope that she hadn’t been hurt.
Get out of here, said the panicked, fluttering voice of cowardice. She’s gone. Probably dead. More dead