The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [191]
When would it stop? When would they give up?
Behind him, he heard a cry. Crake. He risked a glance and saw that one of the Manes had broken through. An awful, red-eyed, ragged thing. It had seized Crake’s gun arm and was biting into the meat of his hand. Frey’s blade came down on its neck. Crake staggered backward, the thing’s head still clamped tight to his flesh.
Then suddenly Bess was back among them, drawn by her master’s voice. She’d abandoned her post and was plowing into the Manes from the rear, scooping them up and flinging them in all directions. The Manes faltered, looking over their shoulders. The Knights had no such hesitation and took the advantage. They shot and cut at the creatures, driving them back, gaining a little space and a few precious seconds to regroup.
A piercing shriek sounded over the square, stilling them all. Even the Knights froze at the sound. Even Bess. They sensed something. A signal, perhaps. Frey wiped blood from his face and searched for the source.
There it was. A Mane, eight feet tall, the same height as Bess. This one was clad in belts and bands of black leather armor, crisscrossing its thin yellow body. Buckles and straps hung from every part of it. Even its face was half hidden by overlapping straps. What little could be seen of it was glowering, hollow-eyed, and fearful. It carried two long, thick chains, far heavier than a man could lift. They hung from bracelets on its wrists, and as Frey saw it, it swung one and lashed it through the air like a whip, screeching a second time.
A leader, a general. Come to rally them, to lead the final charge.
But no. The Manes were stepping back now, retreating. Bess turned quizzically toward Crake, looking for direction. He was gray with pain, but he managed to hold out his good hand. Stop. Don’t do anything.
The Knights had the same idea. They stood ready, but nobody fired a shot. The Manes backed away, turned, and ran out of the square the way they came. The general waited until they’d all passed and then stalked after them, without even a backward glance at the Knights or the dozens of fallen Manes that littered the flagstones of the square.
Frey sagged and let out a trembling breath. They’d given up. Just like that. The cost of the fight was too high for them. He exchanged a glance of happy disbelief with Malvery. The doctor swung his shotgun up on his shoulder and whistled.
“S’pose we showed them, eh, Cap’n?” he said.
“I s’pose we did,” he said. “Go see to Crake, will you?”
“Right-o,” said Malvery. He went over to Crake, who’d flopped to the ground, holding the bloody head of the Mane in one hand. Its teeth were still buried in the other. Yellow eyes glared at him malevolently over his knuckles.
“Ooh. Nasty,” said Malvery, as he squatted down.
Crake wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Get this damned horror off me,” he said.
Malvery pulled out a length of bandage and some disinfectant salve from his inner pocket. “This ought to hold you ’til we get back to the Ketty Jay.” He felt around the Mane’s head with an expression of disgust until he got his fingers between its teeth. “Now,” he said, “this might hurt a shitload.”
Crake’s yell of pain echoed off the walls of the austere banks and imposing merchant houses that overlooked the square. Samandra Bree, who was standing with Frey, winced in sympathy.
“Poor feller,” she said.
“He’ll be okay. It’s only his gun hand. He’s a bloody disaster with a pistol.”
Crake noticed them looking at him and waved weakly to her. She waved back. “Glad you’re back, Grayther Crake,” she called.
“Me too,” he said, though without much conviction.
“I notice you’re missing one, though,” she said to Frey. “Where’s the blonde?”
Frey felt his mood curdle. “She’s gone,” he said.
“Oh,” said Samandra. “My sympathies.”
“Yeah.” Frey checked that his crew