by Ian Whates
Tom saw a blade catch her arm, droplets of blood flying from the wound as the knife tore free, but she didn't slow, didn't hesitate, and the nick responsible became the third to fall. Was he feeling a bit better, thinking a little more clearly? He would have to be. He couldn't simply stand back and watch, not any longer. Drawing his own knife, he trod forward, preparing to join the fray. But before he could do so, a voice called out from somewhere at the back of the attacking mob, a single word.
"Wait."
The attack paused, the relentless pressure eased and the nicks stepped back. Tom came up to stand beside Kat, who failed to acknowledge him. She was breathing hard, her face and arms splattered in blood, little of it her own, and there was a wild, dangerous look in her eyes unlike anything Tom had seen there before, even when they fought the demon hounds.
The street-nicks were moving again, shuffling to the side and making way for a figure who strode through their ranks to the front. The first thing Tom noted was the bald head, then other things began to fall into place. He stared in disbelief at the man who stood before them, a figure whose face and arms were covered in a web of ochre marks, but if he was shocked, then it was clear from Kat's stunned expression that she was doubly so.
"Hello again, Kat," a familiar voice said.
"Rayul?"
Tylus was still not entirely convinced this was the right decision, but it certainly seemed logical the way Dewar had put it to him.
"Do you really trust Richardson to report all of this accurately?" the senior arkademic's man had asked. "Even if you do and even if he surpasses himself, how much credence will the captain or the other guard officers give him? They won't, and we both know it. You're the only one of us who has sufficient authority and respect to explain what we've learned and ensure that they believe it."
"Yes, you might be right," Tylus agreed, "but I still don't see why we shouldn't all go back and report and then set out to tackle this Maker together."
"Because time is of the essence. The watch has to know about what's going on with the street-nicks as soon as possible and the Maker has to be stopped just as quickly, before he can cause any more mischief. You're the best man to deal with the first issue and I'm the best for the second, so we split our forces. Besides, I work better alone."
Tylus still had some reservations about Dewar and was curious about this new assertion that he was best equipped to deal with the Maker, but his arguments were very persuasive and in the end they carried the day. So the Kite Guard and his assistant returned to the station while the senior arkademic's aide went hunting.
The station was in even more of an uproar than when Tylus had first arrived from the Heights, but now it felt different. On that occasion the Kite Guard had found the frenetic activity daunting and disturbing, but now he felt excited by it. In just a few short days he had begun to feel a part of things down here.
"Welcome back to chaos, Tylus," Able said with a grin. "Are you willing to pitch in?"
"Pitch in with what?"
"We've got street-nicks on the rampage all across the under-City. According to reports, they're attacking people in the streets, breaking into homes, disrupting businesses and kidnapping apprentices." Apprentices? Teens again, which supported what the dog master had claimed. "We're about to go and kick their arses!"
Perhaps Tylus had done Dewar a disservice. By the sound of it, the sooner the Maker was stopped the better. "I can probably even explain why the street-nicks are behaving like this as well," he offered.
"Great, well, as soon as you see Captain Johnson, you be sure and tell him. Me, I'm not interested in the why, I just want to stop the breckers. Are you with us or not?"
Tylus sighed. Johnson was nowhere to be seen, presumably off duty or busy elsewhere. So much for rushing back to report what they had discovered. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he replied.
"Good, because I'm short of decent commanders in the field."
Before he knew it, Tylus found himself assigned some men and then sent to see the station's weapons master.
What he was presented with when he did so astonished him. As the name suggested, the weapons master was responsible for the stockpile of weapons which each guard station was equipped with, the special items reserved for particular purpose, including the banshees deployed against the Blue Claw, or for extreme situations such as this. Many of the weapons were things which had been supplied by the arkademics up-City, generally single-use but potent pockets of their art, just waiting to be deployed.
What Tylus expected was that he and his men would march away from the room bristling with enough potent and exotic devices to brush aside battalions of crudely armed street-nicks without breaking sweat. Instead, he was offered the meagre pickings which had not already claimed by other units: one flechette gun, a brace of dazzle bombs and two items which all but defied description. At least there were enough protective helmets for everybody, but helmets were unlikely to win a fight.
"Is this it?" he asked in disbelief.
The weapons master shrugged, "What can I say? Cutbacks. There was a time I could have equipped every man in the station with flechettes, dazzles and stickies and even let 'em have the odd fire bomb, starburst and Phulxas on the side. Now, well, you can see for yourself." He gestured towards the storeroom and its predominantly empty shelves.
The two objects which Tylus failed to recognise were identified by the weapons master as Phulxa plants. These were essentially large and swollen, globe-like buds attached to long, thick stems, standing as tall as a man's chest. The bud was a vaguely disconcerting purple in colour, gradually metamorphosing to a dark green as it approached the stem, which was stripped of any leaves.
"And what the breck am I supposed to do with these?"
"Ah well, let me explain," the sweaty and swarthy weapons master replied, clearly delighted at the chance to show off his knowledge. "Essentially, the plant has been cut and frozen by the arkademics at the very instant of releasing its spore. The Phulxa plant's seed is a great delicacy, highly prised by all manner of creatures, so the plants have developed a cunning defence mechanism to protect their seed..."
Tylus listened with interest but was still far from convinced about these peculiar floral weapons, not least because of the awkwardness inherent in transporting them. Although not heavy as such they were certainly unwieldy, and the weapons master insisted they should not be carried together, for fear of triggering them prematurely, which meant that two of his officers would have their hands full carrying the wretched things like ceremonial totems. Tylus determined that these would be the very first weapons to see use as soon as they encountered the enemy, so freeing two more pairs of hands.
He returned to the squad room none too encouraged and found Richardson buckling on his sword, which reminded him that he hadn't even brought one with him to the City Below. They were hardly standard issue for the Kite Guard. He supposed under the circumstances it made perfect sense to be prepared, and so determined to claim one from the weapons master when he took the men to collect their paltry share of the station's field weapons, assuming there were any swords in stock.
In truth, he hoped they could avoid resorting to anything as inherently lethal as swords, particularly given the way the street-nicks were being manipulated into a cruelly twisted parody of their true selves. Sadly, hopes carried little weight in the real world and Tylus realised full well that circumstances might force his hand.
After gathering up their equipment and receiving a quick briefing from Sergeant Able, the Kite Guard led his men out. He had Richardson beside him and eight officers arrayed behind. They didn't exactly march; Tylus somehow doubted the guards ever truly marched. Besides, the two men carrying the Phulxas looked just as ridiculous as he had feared, but there was still a sense of steely determination about them, and the visored helmets that all now wore lent them added menace. The guards had been run ragged by the street-nicks in recent days, subverted or not, and the men's mood suggested they saw this as
payback time.
The plan was to try and contain the rampaging nicks in certain areas of the city, and Tylus was given a specific position to defend. The maxim that news travels fast in the streets was fully supported as they moved through deserted avenues and across empty squares. Residents had either fled or, more likely, barricaded themselves in their homes.
The sound of distant violence reached them from somewhere - the smashing of glass and occasional shout - but there was no sign of smoke to indicate the nicks were setting any fires, from which Tylus took heart. They were clearly not yet that out of control.
They arrived at their allotted station. There was no cover and nothing obvious with which to construct any. Tylus deployed his men in a line across the street, waiting - though not for long.
They soon heard the sounds of a large, rowdy body of people moving towards them, growing ever closer. Beside him, Richardson shifted his feet nervously. Tylus looked across and tried to smile in reassurance, though in truth he felt far from confident himself, especially bearing in mind their paltry supply of decent weaponry.
"Hold steady," Tylus said to his men, pleased at how calm his voice sounded.
Finally the growing hubbub translated into something more physical, as the vanguard of what was obviously a sizeable mob rounded the corner at the far end of the street. At sight of the waiting guards, the nicks started to shout and holler in earnest.
And still they appeared. Including himself and Richardson, Tylus had a total of ten men at his disposal. At a quick count, he reckoned there were six or seven times as many youths coming towards them, with knives and clubs and chains in evidence. One kid, towards the front of the mob, kept smacking a length of chain against the walls of buildings as he strode forward. He seemed full of verve and bounce and hostile energy, as indeed they all seemed to be. The sound of chain against wall beating out an irregular rhythm only accentuated the menace.
"Phulxa bearers to the fore," Tylus instructed. "Fire when ready."
To his great relief, one of the men claimed to know something about these hideous plants, including such details as their typical range, and Tylus was more than happy to pass over responsibility.
A few tense seconds passed and then the man reached up to rub the stem of his Phulxa vigorously, just below the bulb, the other guard copying him. Though severed from its root, and some time ago at that, the plants suddenly reacted as if they were living things. The long stems curled back, over their holders' shoulders and then sprang forward again with astonishing speed. As they did so, the bulbous buds peeled open and each spat forth a single solid-seeming kernel, nearly as large as a man's head. These missiles sailed forward, one falling at the feet of the nearest nicks, the other going into the front rank of youths.
The way the weapons master had explained the process, the Phulxa produced hundreds of thousands of seeds each season, but only one would germinate. The remainder evolved along a quite different path, remaining tiny and developing a narcotic coating which had a potent soporific effect when ingested by mammals and other creatures. The Kite Guard watched in fascination as these two seed pods split open on impact, releasing what appeared to be a fine white mist which, stirred by so much movement, swirled around the feet of the advancing nicks and rose to engulf them.
Almost immediately, many at the front began to cough and stumble and then wilt to the floor. A dozen or more were out of action courtesy of these ungainly weapons.
Tylus now turned to his flechette gunner, who raised his weapon and took aim with his wide-mouthed blunderbuss of a weapon. The gun fired a cloud of tiny darts, each dipped in a sleep-inducing narcotic, derived, the weapon master had explained, from the Phulxa plant.
At his nod, the gunner fired, and the swarm of flechettes shot towards the advancing nicks, spreading out as they travelled. Where they struck, the youths reacted as if stung, slapping at their arms, legs and faces, before crumbling to the ground. A dent appeared in the advancing mass of nicks as the centre of the front row and many behind them went down. Tylus estimated that as many as fifteen had succumbed. Impressive, but still nowhere near enough.
Inevitably, many of the nicks would have been struck by more than one dart and the Kite Guard knew that multiple doses of the drug were potentially lethal, a fact which bothered him but which he deliberately ignored; there was no helping it.
A few crossbow bolts came back from the advancing youths. Tylus ducked as one flew narrowly past his left shoulder and a scream of pain to his right told of one hitting its mark. A guardsman collapsed, with a bolt through his chest.
The flechette gunner still needed time to reload. Reasoning that those nicks with crossbows had just fired their weapons and wouldn't as yet be any more ready to fire again than his own officer, he drew the net gun and decided to risk an aerial attack.
Turning to Richardson beside him, Tylus said, "Lead a baton charge when I fire, involving everyone but the flechette gunner."
Then he started to run. There wasn't much room, only enough for a few precious sprinted steps, before he spread his arms and took to the air, accompanied by jeers and catcalls from the nicks.
A few stones shot towards him, but none found their target, and then he was sailing over their heads, gaining height the whole while. With a dip of the shoulder he banked left, taking in as he did so another street not far away, where a thin line of brown and orange was struggling to contain a seething mass of youths. The fighting there had already degenerated to hand-to-hand and the heavily outnumbered guards looked to be in trouble. But Tylus had his own responsibilities. His banking manoeuvre brought him around in a tight circle and, seconds after taking off, he raced back over the heads of his own unit, firing the netting gun as he did so. The weighted corners shot out, deploying the net, which fell to engulf the front ranks of street-nicks.
On cue, the thin line of guards charged forward, unleashing their puncheons as they reached the entangled nicks, bringing them down swiftly. Having turned as rapidly as possible, Tylus came back over the scene, narrowly avoiding a crossbow quarrel which spat up towards him from the mass of nicks and grateful that it didn't catch his cape. He couldn't afford to be grounded now.
He landed beside the flechette gunner, calling out to Richardson and the others to withdraw, which they did, some a little more reluctantly than others, evidently enjoying the opportunity to administer a beating. One of the stragglers didn't make it back but was dropped by a crossbow bolt which skewered him through the side. The man fell to the ground still alive, and tried to drag himself forward.
Tylus watched in horror. He didn't want to order an advance and risk being overwhelmed by the street-nick's greater numbers, but at the same time couldn't just abandon the wounded officer.
Nicks from further back in the mob were already climbing over and around their fallen colleagues, and judging by the shouts and gesticulations, they weren't feeling in any way calmer.
The flechette gunner was finally ready again. He looked enquiringly at Tylus, who nodded immediately. The guardsman wasted no further time, raising his weapon and pulling the trigger in one swift movement.
The instant he fired, Tylus ran forward to the injured man, peeling him away from the red smear of blood which marked his efforts to crawl across the dusty ground, and helping him up, having to half-carry, half-support him as they staggered back towards the other guards. Richardson appeared on the man's far side to help but unfortunately their bravery proved to be in vain. Even as they reached the line of orange and brown, the Kite Guard felt the officer's body jerk. A second bolt had taken him through the back. Blood welled from the man's mouth and his eyes stared blankly. He was dead.
Tylus estimated there were still some two dozen nicks standing, which was still too many. He had the flechette gunner retreat twenty paces to reload, with instructions to cover their retreat when it came, which it inevitably would. With great reluctance, he gave the order he'd been dreading to his remaining men: "Sheath puncheons and draw swords. Advance in li
ne."
They walked forward slowly, but the nicks came at them in a rush, preceded by a few large stones, too few to be much of a threat, then the nicks were upon them.
One officer, to the far right, went down almost immediately. Tylus parried a knife thrust with his sword, punched a nick in the face, and then barely knocked another knife aside as it came at his exposed side. In doing so, he stepped back and nearly tripped over the man beside him, Richardson.
The Kite Guard wasn't used to this type of a fight, he doubted whether any of them were. What he had envisaged as an orderly line of officers repelling a sea of hostile youths quickly degenerated into a melee which would suit the larger numbers of nicks for all that this was swords against knives. Besides, when the fighting got this close, knives were, if anything, an advantage, a fact he realised when barely jumping aside from another thrust aimed by a nick who had stepped inside his guard. The knife scraped the side of his belly, drawing blood. Tylus clumped the youth on the back of the head with the butt of his sword, just as an officer beside him went down with a knife in his belly.
This was achieving nothing. "Withdraw!" he bellowed, lifting and throwing the nick in front of him away with both hands, sending him sprawling into a pair behind, feeling his sword bite into the lad's torso as he did so.
A wonderful word, "withdraw", Tylus reflected as he sprinted back to where the flechette gunner waited. So much more dignified than "run".
As he ran, sword still clutched in one hand, he fumbled at his belt with the other, struggling to grasp one of their few remaining precious weapons: a dazzle bomb. Finally freeing it, he threw the fist-sized missile under-arm towards the ground behind him.
The result was spectacular, the street lighting up whitely, glaringly so, as if a miniature sun had just been born. Tylus saw his shadow and those of the other fleeing officers race ahead, reaching the flechette gunner in an instant and spearing beyond him. At the same time, the Kite Guard's vision dulled as the helmet visor darkened in response to the flaring light.