His first thought was that it was Greenwise who had sent them, but how would he have known? The obvious answer then came, that there had been enough commotion in this place to attract someone’s attention, and when the guardsmen had arrived they had taken the closest combatants rushing towards the embattled engine as their enemies.
Thalric came in high, fast. He saw the Mantis-kinden duellist spin, dance, another two men falling back, and dying as they did so. There was a chill in the Wasp’s heart. He was better travelled than most of his race, so he had heard tell of Mantis Weaponsmasters, the last scions of a truly ancient cult. He could not really believe it but here was the very thing.
He would have no second chance now. He watched the swift passes of the Mantis’s claw, the step of his feet, the rhythm of his fight. Thalric was no novice himself: his Art-sting was second nature to him, stronger than it was in his fellows, and he himself more practised with it.
As Tisamon lashed out at another of his soldiers, Thalric chose his moment and loosed, the golden energy of his bolt streaking ahead of him like a falling star.
Impossibly, the Mantis was already turning away from the bolt, twisting away from it even as he fought. Thalric saw it strike, though, lashing down the Mantis’s side as the man finished off the last of his opponents, throwing him against the Pride’s hull and bouncing him backwards to where he collapsed.
Victory soared in Thalric’s heart and he stooped on the Pride, determined to finish this. He heard a voice, and it surely must have been Cheerwell Maker’s voice, cry out, ‘Tisamon!’
Thalric landed ahead of his men, sword in his right hand and his left spread open to unleash his Art-fire. The Mantis was hunched about the wound, struggling to rise. One blow and it would be a simple matter to break into the engine room and dispatch whoever was inside, dispatch Cheerwell, if it was her.
The idea hurt him, but it was for the Empire. It was war.
He looked up, and Tynisa descended on him from atop the engine. She led with her sword, and she shrieked something as mad as the rage-racked look on her face.
His blade was coming up, and he was falling back, but too late, too late.
The point of the rapier lanced for his chest. It struck the banded imperial armour and pierced it with the slightest bending of the blade, but the plates slowed it enough that when it met the copperweave beneath it merely scraped down the links, severing them one after another, drawing a line of agony down his chest that was nevertheless only skin deep, until it ripped free of his ruined armour and stabbed him through his thigh.
He dropped to one knee with a cry of pain and lunged forward with his own blade. It caught her in the belly but it was a weak blow, dulled by shock and hurt, and it skidded across her arming jacket before it drew blood, slicing along her waist and then bloodying her arm on the backstroke. She reeled backwards and he saw her fingers open, and yet the rapier hung in her hand still, refusing to be dropped.
He stood, fell to his knee almost immediately, but already loosing his sting at her. It melted a fist-sized dent in the metal of the Pride as she lurched out of the way.
‘You killed him!’ she screamed at Thalric, and he fell back and rolled as she lunged at him, the rapier’s tip drawing a line of blood across his scalp. He came up swinging, forcing her back, left hand pulled back for another shot.
Tisamon lurched to his feet. They were both deadly still in that moment as he levered himself halfway up, and then forced himself to rise the rest of the way. One arm was wrapped about his burned side, but his claw hung ready for battle, steeped in the blood of two dozen Wasps and not slaked yet.
His bared teeth might have been a grimace of pain or a smile of anticipation.
Faced with that sight, wounded and battered and with this monster on its feet again and standing like an executioner, Thalric felt his nerve falter. He had feared before, but it had been a rational fear. Now he kicked backwards, wings flickering in and out of his back, putting a distance between himself and this mad killer and his even worse daughter. Then his men were there, rushing into the fray, and he watched Tisamon and Tynisa take them on. Both injured, both more ragged in movement than before, and yet they held their ground. Thalric gathered himself, looking round for the automotive which surely must be there by now.
It was burning, he now saw. Three legs were rigid and one gone entirely, flames licked from within its cabin, gusted from its eyeslit. Beyond it he could see a slow trail of fire in the sky where the spotter blimp was drifting downwards in ruin.
Che pulled another two levers and turned one of the crank wheels, feeling the power within the engine start to vibrate the footplates beneath her. She was almost there, she knew. The glass-fronted chamber was almost incandescent, with Scuto peering into it through two layers of cloth. She could feel the whole of the Pride shaking, and she knew its inventors had never intended such intense stresses on it.
‘Almost,’ she said, and gave the wheel another three turns, bringing the supercharged elements within the engine’s long body closer and closer. She could only imagine the lightning crackling one to another, faster and faster until it was lightning no longer, but pure motive power.
‘Che-’ Scuto began nervously.
‘Just a little more,’ she told him.
‘Che!’ he said. ‘No more! We have to go!’
‘Why?’ she asked, and looked up from the controls.
He was only half there, or so her eyes told her. The half of him furthest from that window was dark shadow, the rest was invisible in a sea of light. Not heat, she realized, pure light, and yet the thick glass was running like ice on a warm morning, limned with a molten glow, streaking the metal beneath it to puddle like wax on the floor.
‘We have to go!’ he said again desperately, and then with all his might, for those close to the Pride, he yelled, ‘Everybody clear of the train!’
Tynisa heard the Thorn Bug’s wild cry. She saw the surviving Wasps were already being routed, those few that could. She looked at Tisamon and saw him ashen even in the moonlight, swaying.
She caught him, got his arm over her shoulder and her arm about his waist. He barked with the pain, but there was no time, no time. Behind them white light was streaming from the Pride’s cab, and from the very seams of its engine housing.
There was a Wasp ahead of them on one knee, the very man who had shot Tisamon. She readied her rapier, hoping to cut him down before he could loose his sting or cut at them. For a moment she met his eyes, seeing pain and bitterness and a certain resignation. Then he was gone, his wings casting him high into the sky.
And she ran, and Tisamon ran when he could and she dragged him when he couldn’t.
And they fell. She looked back then, at the Pride, which was leaking fire at every rivet hole.
She saw it explode.
Except it was not that, not quite. The roof of the engine chamber burst open with a thunderous peal and a bolt of lightning shot straight upwards at clouds that were forming even then, spewing out of a vortex above the stricken Pride, enough to blot out the moon.
And a clear second later, the lightning lashed down, a stabbing spear of blinding white that struck the Pride square on and blasted it to pieces. She was blinded by it, seeing white only, and deafened because of the thunder that rumbled on and on in the sky.
She realized then that she had not seen Che get clear of the doomed engine before the bolt struck.