Daggers flickered through the air towards him. He threw himself down and to the right, regaining his feet in time to meet the first four Claws. A flurry of parries as Kalam worked his way further right, pulling himself beyond the range of two of the attackers. Long-knife lashed out, opening one man’s face, and as the man reeled back, Kalam stepped close, impaling the man’s left thigh whilst blocking a frenzied attack from the other Claw. Pivoting on the first Claw’s pinned thigh, he twisted behind the man and thrust with his free weapon over his victim’s right shoulder, the point tearing into the second attacker’s neck.
Tugging free the blade impaling the thigh, Kalam brought that arm up to lock beneath the first Claw’s chin, where he flexed hard and, with a single, savage wrenching motion, snapped the man’s neck.
The one stabbed in the throat had stumbled, his jugular severed and blood spraying through the fingers grasping futilely at the wound. The last two of the four assassins were coming up fast. Beyond them, Kalam saw, the other Hands were racing for the Adjunct and T’amber.
Snarling his rage, Kalam launched himself past the two Claws, taking their attacks on his long-knives, slamming his foot into the nearer one’s right leg, midway between knee and ankle, breaking bones. As the assassin shrieked her pain, the second attacker, seeking to move past her, collided with the falling woman, then lost balance entirely as both feet slid out on spilled blood.
Kalam’s wild sprint struck the first group of Claws charging the Adjunct and Tavore. Coming from their left and slightly behind them, his sudden arrival forced a half-dozen attackers to swing round to meet him. Taking counterattacks with parries, he threw his shoulder into the chest of the nearest Claw. The crack of ribs, a whoosh of breath driven from the lungs, and the attacker left his feet, flung backward to foul two Claws directly behind him. One of these stumbled too close to Kalam as he surged past, within reach of his left long-knife, and the cut he delivered into the victim’s neck nearly severed the head.
Only two of the remaining four were close enough to spring at him. One came low from the left, the other high from the right. Kalam slashed across the path of the first attacker, felt his blade scrape along both knives in the Claw’s hands. He followed that with a knee between the figure’s eyes. The second attacker he forced back with a fully extended arm and long-knife, and the Claw, leaning back in desperation, left both feet planted – Kalam dropped the high feint and cut vertically down through the attacker’s stomach to the crotch.
The Claw squealed as intestines tumbled out between his knees. Tearing his long-knife loose, Kalam continued his charge – and heard someone closing on him from behind. Dropping into a crouch, Kalam skidded to a halt, then threw himself backward. A dagger sank into his left waist, just beneath the ribcage, the point angled upward – seeking his heart – and then the two assassins collided, Kalam flinging his head back, connecting with the Claw’s forehead. A second dagger skidded along mail beneath his right arm. Twisting away from the knife impaling him, he spun round and punched his elbow into the side of the Claw’s head, crushing the cheekbone. The attacker sprawled, losing his grip on the knife in Kalam’s side.
Gasping, Kalam forced himself forward once more. Every motion sent the fierce fire of agony through his chest, but he had no time to pull out the knife, as the last two Claws who had turned to meet him now rushed him.
But too close together, almost side by side – Kalam leapt to his right to take himself beyond the range of one of them. He ducked a horizontal slash seeking his throat, caught the second knife with an edge-on-bone parry of the Claw’s forearm, then back-hand thrust into the attacker’s throat. Even as that victim began pitching forward, Kalam settled his left shoulder against the chest – and pushed hard, following the body as it slammed into the other assassin. All three went down, with Kalam on top. The corpse between him and the live Claw snagged one of his long-knives – pulling that hand free, Kalam stabbed thumb and index finger into the assassin’s eyes, hooking with the thumb and pushing ever deeper with the finger, until the body ceased spasming.
Hearing more fighting from the alley, Kalam pushed himself to his feet, paused to ease free the knife in his side, cursing at the blood that gushed in the wake of the blade. He collected the snagged long-knife, then staggered into the alley.
Only three Claws remained, and T’amber had engaged two of them, driving both back, step by step, into Kalam’s path.
He moved up, thrust once, then twice, and two bodies writhed at his feet. T’amber had already turned and rushed to take the last assassin from behind, crushing the skull with the edge of her sword.
One of the Claws below heaved to one side, lifting a weapon – Kalam stamped his heel into the assassin’s neck.
Sudden silence beyond the gasping of breaths.
He stared at the two women. T’amber was a mass of wounds – frothy blood was streaming from her nose and mouth and he saw the shuddering, frantic rise and fall of her chest. Grimacing against his own pain, Kalam turned to study the street he had just left.
Bodies moving here and there, but none seemed inclined to renew the fight.
The Adjunct moved up beside him. Blood had splashed her face, mingling with grimy sweat. ‘Kalam Mekhar. I watch you. It seems…’ She shook her head. ‘It seems you move faster than them. And for all their training, their skills, they cannot keep up with you.’
He wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. His hands, clenching the grips of the long-knives, ached, but he could not relax them. ‘It all slows down, Adjunct,’ he said in a rumble. ‘In my mind, they just slow down.’ He shook himself, forcing loose the muscles of his back and shoulders. He had managed to stem the bleeding, although he could feel the heat of blood down the outside of his leg, beneath the heavy cloth, forming a glue between the fabric and his skin. He was exhausted, a sour taste on his tongue. ‘We can’t stop,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty more. We’re close to Admiral Bridge, almost there.’
‘There?’
‘The Mouse.’
‘I hear riots – there’s fires there, and smoke, Kalam.’
He nodded. ‘Aye. Confusion. That’s good.’ He glanced back at T’amber. She was leaning with her back against a wall, sheathed in blood, her eyes closed. Kalam lowered his voice. ‘Adjunct, she needs healing, before it’s too late.’
But T’amber heard. Eyes opening, a gleam like tiger-eyes, and she straightened. ‘I’m ready.’
The Adjunct took a half-step towards her lover, then was forced to turn as T’amber moved past her to the alley mouth.
Kalam saw the anguish in Tavore’s gaze, and he looked away.
And saw thirty or more Claws shimmer into view not forty paces up the street. ‘Shit! Run!’
They emerged from the alley and set off. Kalam slowed his pace to allow the Adjunct past him. Somehow, T’amber stayed ahead of them, taking point. There’ll be another ambush. Waiting for us. She’ll stumble right into it—
Behind them, the assassins were in full pursuit, the faster sprinters among them closing the distance. Beyond the sound of soft footfalls, the thump of boots, and a chorus of fierce gasps, it seemed the cobbles beneath them, the buildings to either side, and even the lowering sky overhead, all conspired to close in upon them – upon this desperate scene – deadening the air, making it thicker, muffled. If eyes witnessed, the faces quickly turned away. If there were figures in the alleys they passed, they melted back into the darkness.
The street angled westward, now opposite Raven Hill Park. Up ahead it would link up with another street that bordered the park on the west side, before striking southward to the bridge. As they neared that intersection, Kalam saw T’amber suddenly shift direction, leading them into an alley on the left, and then he saw the reason for the unexpected detour – more Hands, massing in the intersection, and now surging forward.
They’re herding us. To the bridge. What’s waiting for us on the other side?
The alley widened into something like a street just past the first
flanking buildings, and directly before them was the low wall encircling the park.
T’amber slowed, as if unsure whether to skirt that wall to the left or the right, then she staggered, lifting her sword as attackers closed in on her from both sides.
The Adjunct cried out.
Blades clashed, a body tumbled to one side, the others swarming round T’amber – Kalam saw two knives sink into the woman’s torso, yet still she remained on her feet, slashing out with her sword. As Tavore reached them – thrusting her otataral blade into the side of an assassin’s head, a savage lateral tug freeing it, the rust-hued weapon hissing into the path of an arm, slicing through flesh and bone, the arm flying away—
Kalam saw, in the heartbeat before he joined the fight, T’amber reaching out with her free hand to take a Claw by the throat, then pull the attacker into the air, pivoting to throw the Claw against the stone wall. Even as the figure repeatedly stabbed the woman in the chest, shoulders and upper arms.
Gods below!
Kalam arrived like a charging bhederin, long-knives licking out even as he hammered his weight into one Claw, then another, sending both sprawling.
There in the gloom before the wall of Raven Hill Park, a savage frenzy of close-in fighting, a second Hand joining what was left of the first. A dozen rapid heartbeats, and it was over.
And there was no time to pause, no time for a breath to recover, as quarrels began pounding into the wall.
Kalam waved mutely to run along the wall, westward, and somehow – impossibly – T’amber once more took the lead.
Screams erupted behind them, but there was no time to look. The wall curved southward, forming one side of the street leading to Admiral Bridge, and there stood the stone span, unlit, so buried in shadows that it might have been at the base of a pit. As they drew closer, that sorcery wavered, then died. Revealing… nothing. No-one in sight.
‘T’amber!’ Kalam hissed. ‘Hold up!’
Whatever had struck in their wake had snared the attention of the pursuing Claws – at least for the moment. ‘Adjunct, listen to me. You and T’amber, get down into the river. Follow it straight to the harbour.’
‘What about you?’ Tavore demanded.
‘We haven’t yet encountered a third of the Hands in the city, Adjunct.’ He nodded towards the Mouse. ‘They’re in there. I plan on leading them a merry chase.’ He paused, then spat out a mouthful of phlegm and blood. ‘I can lose them eventually – I know the Mouse, Tavore. I’ll take to the rooftops.’
‘There’s no point in splitting up—’
‘Yes, Adjunct. There is.’ Kalam studied T’amber for a moment. Yes, despite everything, not much longer for you. ‘T’amber agrees with me. She’ll get you to the harbour.’
From the streets and alleys behind them, ominous silence, now. Closing in. ‘Go.’
The Adjunct met his eyes. ‘Kalam—’
‘Just go, Tavore.’
He watched as they moved to the edge of the river, the old sagging stone retaining wall at their feet. T’amber climbed down first. The river was befouled, sluggish and shallow. It would be slow going, but the darkness would hide them. And when they get to the harbour… well, it’ll be time to improvise.
Kalam adjusted his grips on the long-knives. A last glance behind him. Still nothing there. Odd. He fixed his gaze on the bridge. All right. Let’s get this over with.
Lostara Yil made her way across the concourse, leaving Rampart Way and the bodies at its foot behind her. The sounds of rioting were still distant – coming from the harbour and beyond – while the nearby buildings and estates were silent and unlit, as if she had found herself in a necropolis, a fitting monument to imperial glory.
The small figure that stepped out before her was thus all the more startling, and her disquiet only increased upon recognizing him. ‘Grub,’ she said, approaching, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ the boy replied, wiping at a runny nose.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll take you where you need to go. It’s a sad night, but it will be all right, you’ll see that one day.’ With that he turned around and headed off along the avenue, southward. ‘We don’t need to stay on the path, not yet. We can take the first bridge. Lostara Yil—’ a glance back, ‘you’re very pretty.’
Suddenly chilled despite the sultry air, she set off after him. ‘What path?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Skittering sounds in the shadows off to her left. She closed a hand on her sword. ‘Something’s there—’
‘That’s okay,’ Grub said. ‘They’re my friends. There won’t be any trouble. But we should hurry.’
Before long they reached the bridge leading into Centre District, whereupon Grub angled them westward for a short time, before turning south once more.
They soon came upon the first of the bodies. Claws, sprawled in small groups at first – where rats and wild dogs had already come out to feed – and then, as they neared Raven Hill Park, the street was literally filled with corpses. Lostara slowed her pace as she approached the elongated scene of slaughter – heading southward, as if a bladed whirlwind had raced through a hundred or more imperial assassins – and, slowly, Lostara Yil realized something, as she looked upon one cut-up figure after another… a pattern to the wounds, to their placements, to the smooth precision of every mortal blow.
Her chill deepened, stole into her bones.
Three paces ahead, Grub was humming a Wickan drover’s song.
Halfway across Admiral Bridge, Kalam lodged one weapon under an arm and reached for the acorn tucked into the folds of his sash. Smooth, warm even through the leather of his tattered glove, as if welcoming. And… impatient.
Ducking into a crouch along one of the low retaining walls on the bridge, Kalam flung the acorn to the pavestones. It cracked, spun in place for a moment, then stilled.
‘All right, Quick,’ Kalam muttered, ‘any time now.’
In a cabin on the Froth Wolf, Adaephon Delat, seated crosslegged on the floor, his eyes closed, flinched at that distant summons. Closer to hand, he could hear more fighting along the harbourfront, and he knew the Perish were being pushed back, step by step, battered by sorcery and an evergrowing mass of frenzied attackers. Whilst above decks Destriant Run’Thurvian was maintaining a barrier against every magical assault on the ship itself. Quick Ben sensed that the man was not exactly hard-pressed, but clearly distracted by something, and so there was a hesitation in him, as if he but awaited a far more taxing calling – a moment that was fast approaching.
Well, we got trouble everywhere, don’t we just?
It would not be easy slipping through the maze of warrens unleashed in the streets of the city this night. Pockets of virulent sorcery wandered here and there, mobile traps eager to deliver agonizing death, and Quick Ben recognized those. Ruse, the path of the sea. Those traps are water, stolen from deep oceans and retaining that savage pressure – they crush everything they envelop. This is High Ruse, and it’s damned ugly.
Someone out there was waiting for him. To make his move. And whoever it was, they wanted Quick Ben to remain precisely where he was, in a cabin on the Froth Wolf. Remain, doing nothing, staying out of the fight.
Well. He had unveiled four warrens, woven an even dozen sorcerous spells, all eager to be sprung loose – his hands itched, then burned, as if he was repeatedly dipping them in acid.
Kalam’s out there, and he needs my help.
The High Mage allowed himself the briefest of nods, and the rent of a warren opened before him. He slowly rose to his feet, joints protesting the motion – gods, I think I’m getting old. Who’d have thought? He drew a deep breath, then, blinking to clear his vision, he lunged forward – into the rent—
—and, even as he vanished he heard a soft giggle, then a sibilant voice: ‘You said you owed me, remember? Well, my dear Snake, it’s time.’
Twenty heartbeats. Twenty-five. Thirty. Hood’s breath! Kalam stared down a
t the broken acorn. Shit. Shit shit shit. Forty. Cursing under his breath, he set off.
That’s the problem with the shaved knuckle in the hole. Sometimes it doesn’t work. So, I’m on my own. Well, so be it, I’ve been getting sick of this life anyway. Murder was overrated, he decided. It achieved nothing, nothing of real value. There wasn’t an assassin out there who didn’t deserve to have his or her head cut off and stuck on a spike. Skill, talent, opportunity – none of them justified the taking of a life.
How many of us – yes you – how many of you hate what you are? It’s not worth it, you know. Hood take all those blistering egos, let’s flash our pathetic light one last time, then surrender to the darkness. I’m done, with this. I’m done.
He reached the end of the bridge and paused once more. Another backward glance. Well, it ain’t burning, except here in my mind. Closing the circle, right? Hedge, Trotts, Whiskeyjack…
The dark, pitted and broken face of the Mouse beckoned. A decayed grin, destitution and degradation, the misery that haunted so much life. It was, Kalam Mekhar decided, the right place. The assassin burst into motion, a diagonal sprint, hard and as low to the ground as he could manage, up to the leaning façade of a remnant of some estate wall, surging upward, one foot jamming in a cluttered murder hole – dislodging a bird’s nest – up, forearm wrapping round the top edge, broken shards of cemented crockery cutting through the sleeve, puncturing skin – then over, one foot gaining purchase on the ragged row, launching himself forward, through the air, onto an angled roof that exploded with guano dust as he struck it, scrambling along the incline, two long strides taking him to the peak, then down the other side—
And onto the wild maze, the crackled, disjointed back of the vast Mouse—
Claws, crouched and waiting, lunged in from all sides. Big, the biggest assassins Kalam had seen yet, each wielding long-knives in both hands. Fast, like vipers, lashing out.
Bonehunters Page 110