The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [189]
He’d arrived in the nick of time, it seemed. The way heroes were supposed to.
“You ready to get back in there, you shuddery old dog?” he asked Harkins.
“I suppose, I … Wait a … No. Yes. Ready.”
“Alright. Follow me down.”
“Pinn?”
“What?”
There was a pause. “It’s … that is … I’m … er …” He stopped and collected himself. “It’s good to see you,” he said at last.
Pinn felt a smile spread across his face. “Good to see you too,” he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. Then he shoved his flight stick forward and dived toward the enemy, whooping all the way.
Time to make himself a hero. Emanda deserved nothing less.
THE MANES CAME IN a flood. The Century Knights were waiting for them.
They stood in a line, guns raised, in front of the massive stone fountain that formed the centerpiece of the sunken square. They’d had only seconds to organize themselves, but they did so quickly and smoothly at an order from Kedmund Drave. They were a well-oiled unit, disciplined and deadly. The Archduke’s elite: the best of the best.
Frey and his crew stood with them.
When they first met the Knights in the square, Frey had half a mind to keep on running and let the Knights deal with the Manes at their back. At least they might slow the pursuit a bit before they were overwhelmed. But he’d made a snap decision and, absurdly, decided to stay. He’d begun to feel a faint camaraderie with Bree and Grudge, enough that he’d feel like a rat for bailing out on them. Their paths had crossed several times over the last year and a half, and they’d saved his life in the past.
Maybe it was because he needed to do something honorable, because Trinica had treated him so dishonorably. Maybe it was the pull of childhood fantasy. Every boy—and many girls—grew up wanting to be a Century Knight. Fighting alongside them came a close second.
Or maybe—and more likely—it was just because Samandra Bree was damned cute and he didn’t like the idea of letting her get her face eaten by a Mane.
The horde hadn’t expected resistance, perhaps. Certainly not on the scale they faced now. They came through the narrow bottleneck where the cobbled street entered the high-walled square. More than a dozen guns opened up on them, and they were mowed down like wheat.
Frey and his men aimed and fired into the thrashing mass of Manes, hoping to hit whatever they could. The Knights, in contrast, were astonishingly accurate. Whenever Samandra Bree fired one of her twin shotguns, or Mordric Jask his large-caliber pistols, it was a head shot. Colden Grudge’s autocannon was less precise, but he made up for it with his sheer destructive power. Each bolt tore through several Manes, smashing through limbs and ribs and skulls. They howled as they were shredded into bloody meat.
But the withering hail of bullets couldn’t hold them back for long. One by one the defenders stopped to reload. For the Knights, it was a well-drilled maneuver accomplished with impressive speed. For Frey’s crew, it was more a matter of fumbling the bullets into their chambers and trying not to drop any.
The Manes took advantage of the lull. They were relentless, leaping over their fallen, scrambling and slipping through the tumble of shattered bodies. The defenders couldn’t catch them all, and the Manes began to break through the bottleneck and spread into the square.
“Bess!” said Frey. “Get in there!”
Bess didn’t need a second invitation. She thundered forward through the hail of bullets and crashed into the Mane horde. With her arms outstretched, she took up half of the width of the bottleneck. She scooped up the Manes and forced them back with sheer, unstoppable strength. The Manes scratched and bit at her, but it was like attacking a cliff face. With Bess narrowing the gap, the flow of Manes into the square was choked off.
Grissom and Jask turned their