The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [51]
Six bullets left.
“Come on, you ugly sons of whores!” Grist cried, sphere tucked under one arm, revolver leveled. Crake was stuffing bullets into the drum of his own weapon, having no doubt wasted the previous five. The daemonist’s lack of accuracy was legendary. An arrow whisked past Frey’s head and thumped, quivering, into a tree trunk. He ducked, long after it would have done any good.
Seconds passed, and no new attack. A break in the assault. Frey took the initiative before any more arrows came.
“Get going! To the ridge!”
That spurred them. They ran onward. The beast-men rustled and moved with them, always staying out of sight. Impossible to tell their numbers. Ten? Fifty? Frey saw Malvery empty his shotgun into the foliage in a cloud of shredded leaves and blood.
What have I got us into? Frey thought, not for the first time.
“They’re coming up behind us!” Crattle yelled. He was pointing to where the hull of the dreadnought rose over them, partially obscured by the trees. Beast-men were shambling out of the breach. Some of them had taken up the chase, others were investigating the abandoned packs piled at the entrance. Only Silo and Crake were encumbered now, carrying the daemonist’s equipment; the rest had left their gear behind in favor of speed.
Frey pushed on toward the rock wall that was their only way out. A red-furred female popped up on top of it, pointing a bow down at them. Even the smaller females were almost two meters tall. They were breastless and differed outwardly from the males only in the color of their fur and their slighter build. It snarled and aimed, feral intelligence glittering in its small eyes.
There was a volley of gunshots from behind Frey. The beast-woman jerked and keeled over, arrow tangling in her fingers, unfired.
“Cover me!” Frey cried. “I’m going up!”
He thrust his pistols into his belt and began to climb. It was only halfway up that he began to consider what in damnation he was doing. There were plenty of other people who could have gone up first. Why did he volunteer?
A rush of blood to the head. Swept up in the moment. The kind of stupid bravery that got people killed. But it was too late to back out now.
He got his arms over the top of the ridge and pulled his head and shoulders up. Two beast-men were running along the ridge toward him, clubs in their hands. Faced with a leg-breaking drop if he let go, he chose to go on, straining to lift himself over the edge. If he could get his feet under him in time, if he could get a revolver out—
There was a crackle of gunfire below him. One of the beast-men tumbled. The other came on, unhurt. Frey was still scrambling desperately onto the ridge when the beast-man reached him. He got his knee over and rolled aside just as the club smashed into the ground, centimeters from his head.
He sprang to his feet, but the beast-man was quick. With its other hand, it snatched him up by the throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. Frey choked as rough fingers cut off his air. He kicked uselessly, one hand clawing at the beast-man’s hairy wrist. The savage raised its club, ready to smash his skull like an egg.
Two gunshots. The beast-man’s face changed from fury to puzzlement. A disturbingly human expression. Then the fingers around Frey’s neck loosened, and the beast-man fell. Frey staggered back, one hand going to his throat, the other still holding the revolver he’d pulled from his belt.
Four.
His companions had started climbing up from below, one by one, while the rest held off the beast-men. Frey hid behind a tree near the lip of the ridge. He scanned