The triplane waggled its wings. It didn’t look to Harris like a celebration of victory; it seemed to be slewing out of control. It turned to pass once more over the castle. Then it climbed at an ever-increasing angle, as if the pilot sought to reach the silvery arc of the moon.
The plane continued its arc until it stood on its tail. Harris heard the engine catch and fail. Then the plane heeled over and dropped, spinning, an unaerodynamic fall, to smash into the far wall of the castle.
Doc was almost to the castle gate when automatic gunfire erupted from the entrance into the fortress.
Harris saw him go down. Doc continued into a controlled tumble, getting clear of the trail, finishing up behind a gentle rise in the earth; apparently unhurt, he returned fire with his pistol. Alastair joined him, went prone, and opened fire with his Klapper.
Harris left the trail and scrambled upslope. In a few seconds he was at right angles to the castle entrance, out of sight of its defenders. He cut across toward the fortress’ western wall. This wall stood tall and unbroken, portions of it lighter and in better repair than others; its upper reaches were overgrown with the wooden framework the repairmen had been working from. Perhaps he could find a dangling rope or a rough patch of original wall to climb.
Below, he saw Doc’s other associates spreading out from the trail, returning fire against Blackletter’s men.
There was a brief whoosh and the sky above the castle lit up. It didn’t look like the pyrotechnics that had erupted from Adennum Complex. Harris guessed that the crashed plane was on fire.
Above the gunfire, he heard the rattling of a generator and the faint suggestion of chanting. But he trotted the entire length of the west wall and found no way up.
“Harris!”
He spun. Joseph stood at the bottom of the wall toward the castle’s front face. Harris ran downslope to join him.
Joseph pointed. “You want to go up?”
“It’s a hell of a good idea.”
“Get on my back.”
Harris did. He wrapped his arms around Joseph’s neck. On account of the “cheese-grater” he was wearing, he wasn’t willing to settle in against Joseph; he had to keep his knees pressed to the giant’s back.
Joseph didn’t seem to mind. He started climbing.
His hands seemed to find every crack between the stones of the wall. To Harris, it seemed as though his fingers settled, even oozed, into the gaps. Joseph hauled himself up with great speed and utter confidence. Harris took a look at the ground below and waited for fear of heights to claim him as it had at the construction site, but it didn’t.
In moments, he was able to step off onto the highest of the wooden repair walkways. There was a coil of rope on the walkway. He quickly tied it off and then kicked it over the side; it unrolled as it fell. Then he stepped up between the battlements and joined Joseph atop the wall. He had an excellent view of the castle’s interior.
On the far wall hung the smashed triplane, burning furiously. The fire had already spread to wooden walkways and support beams.
Below, occupying most of the castle’s courtyard, was another Cabinet-henge. At the center was a small fire surrounded by men; red smoke rose from the fire.
The castle didn’t seem to have any sort of gatehouse, just a gate and drawbridge flanked by round towers. He could see men clustered to either side of the opening, spraying gunfire out at Harris’ friends.
Harris saw what they were firing. Klapper autoguns and what looked like machine guns, against the pistols and occasional autoguns of his friends.
“Get under cover,” he said. He didn’t wait to look. He drew both pistols and lay down at the interior edge of the wall. He sighted in on one of the groups of gunmen and opened fire.
He’d emptied one gun before there was a reaction. One of the silhouettes by the gate slumped to the ground. Others turned and opened fire on Harris.
He heard something whistle near him. A little piece of the stone wall beneath him exploded, sending a shard of stone into his chin. It hurt, but it was a dull pain.
There was a wet, meaty noise above him. Harris glanced up.
Joseph still stood there. A small crater had appeared on the exposed flesh of his chest. The giant looked a trifle puzzled. As Harris watched, his chest began to resume its normal shape.
Joseph walked back to the battlements. He reached past them and yanked. There was a cracking noise. He came up with a wooden beam, something like a four-by-six, at least ten feet long. He began walking along the wall toward its southern face.
Harris switched to his second gun and continued to fire. Some of the men below had quit the gate and were sheltering behind the cabinets. They fired at him. Harris saw another man at the gate fall down; it wasn’t one he was aiming at. Maybe his friends were making headway.
He paused to reload. Joseph got to the corner where the walls met and turned toward the gate.
The plane on the far wall exploded. Burning wreckage dropped into the courtyard. A sheet of fire blew out over the castle, raining flaming debris everywhere. Something lit on Harris’ cheek and bit him; he swatted the ember off his flesh and began firing again.
Joseph reached the west tower flanking the gate. He stepped off the wall. Harris froze, arrested by the sight of his friend attempting to kill himself.
Joseph fell forty feet to the ground. He flattened just a little when he hit. He stood up immediately and swung his improvised club. Even at this distance, Harris could hear the crack as it met the head of one of the gunmen at the gate. The blow swatted that man aside. Joseph stepped forward and drove his beam into the chest of the next gunman.
The men around the gate turned their fire on Joseph. Harris saw the giant shudder and jerk as he was hit, perhaps dozens of times. But Joseph waded into his enemies, swinging his club, smashing men to the ground.
Harris kept firing until his second gun was empty again. He thought he saw two men fell under his gunfire. He began to reload.
A hard, cold piece of metal pressed up against his temple. His stomach seized up and he froze.
A man’s voice, hard and cold: “Drop those pieces of shit over the edge.”
Harris complied. Below, he saw one of the gate defenders fall backwards, hit by fire from outside.
“Your other gun, too, dickhead. Angus told us about you.”
Harris carefully, slowly drew out the revolver from his belt holster and dropped it off the wall.
The man stepped back. “Stand up and turn around.”
Harris did. He turned to face Phipps. The man wore a dirt-streaked grimworld suit and burgundy-and-yellow power tie that seemed doubly incongruous in this setting.
Phipps smiled. “Here it comes, punk.” Then he froze.
A woman’s brown arm snaked from behind Phipps and relieved him of his pistol. Ixyail stepped back and away from the grimworlder. She carried another gun in her left hand. She, too, was smiling. “Two big steers fighting,” she said. “I must see this. That will be worth all the climbing.”
Phipps looked at her, confused, taking a moment to realize that he’d just been given permission to beat Harris to death. “All right,” he said. “Just as good.”
He stepped forward.
Harris knuckle-punched him in the throat. Phipps clutched at the injury, surprise in his eyes.
Harris grabbed him by the tie and yanked. Phipps sailed off the wall, his arms flailing. He got out one strangled cry before he smashed into the flagstones four stories below.
“Give me that.” Harris, exasperated, took Phipps’ revolver from Ixyail.
“That was no fight.” She looked disappointed.
“Give Joseph some support. I’m going down.”