Marent’s mouth twisted unhappily, and Tynan wondered just how far ahead he had planned into the reign of Emperor Tynan the First. He had no counter-argument, though, and neither did any of the others.
Thirty-Five
The soldiers of the Worm were right behind them, and Totho could feel them catching up. Their presence was like a blanket laid over his mind, stifling those parts of it that understood the weapon he carried and the artifice that had gone into its construction. At the same time, there was almost no light – just his lantern and a few brands carried by the fleeing refugees. If I could achieve range. But at the distance he would need from his enemy to know his own mind, he would have no target but the vast canvas of the darkness itself.
He heard the first cries from the blackness behind, indicating the slowest of the fugitives falling to the blades of the pursuit. Ahead, others were breaking off from the flight – the boldest, the most desperate, those who had dependants still fleeing. Totho caught mad, wheeling glimpses of their faces as they gave up their chance at life: great solid Mole Crickets towering over him, the runners dodging about them as though they were features of the landscape; stocky Beetle-kinden wielding stolen Worm swords; Moth-kinden slingers who perhaps would trust to their wings to carry them away at the last.
Messel, he saw too. Messel was now stopping, a sling in his hands. A blind man with a sling. It seemed to summarize everything that Totho had so far seen of this insane, terrifying place.
‘Move!’ he yelled. ‘Messel, go! I need you to take me to Che!’ A Beetle man pushed past, a screaming child laid over his shoulder. Totho reached for the eyeless man’s shoulder but Messel just stepped away, sensing, somehow, where his hand would fall.
‘Go.’
‘Come on, you witless imbecile!’ Totho shrieked at him. ‘Move, you blind bastard!’
Messel’s teeth were bared, and Totho saw that he was shaking with fright. He had his sling whirling, though, and the fighting sounded very close. ‘I am doing her will,’ he spat.
‘Who – Che?’ Totho demanded. ‘You, this . . . Do you even . . .?’
A vast Mole Cricket woman barrelled past towards the fighting, bellowing out what sounded more like a dirge than a battle cry. She had a great metal hammer in one hand, already whirling in a wide underarm stroke, and it made contact even as she passed Totho, sending one of the Worm’s bodies flying, broken and loose jointed, into the darkness.
‘Please, Messel!’ Totho insisted. ‘Che needs to . . . I need to get to Che. I . . .’ He swore furiously, setting his lantern down then and skidding it across the stony ground towards the onrush of the Worm.
He saw only a brief glimpse of their charge before he went fleeing into the dark, scrambling, battering his mailed shins against the rocks, then understanding fell back into his mind, his distance from the Worm just sufficient for it, and he turned and levelled his snapbow.
He saw them approaching there, just shadows dashing past his lamp, and he loosed and loosed, emptying the weapon, then slotting another magazine into place and emptying it again, every shot a hit, every hit a kill – and sometimes more than one, as the bolts tore through more than one body. But he ran out of bolts before they ran out of Worm, and when his weapon clicked empty, they were still coming. Then one of them kicked his lamp, quite inadvertently, and that bright, hopeful flare was plunged into darkness.
He could see the few brave torches of the fugitives, and he made for them, skidding and stumbling into their ranks, desperate to find Messel, to drag him from the fray and abscond with the man so that the knowledge lurking behind his eyeless visage might be preserved. Then someone drove a blade at him and Totho staggered back under the impact, the now-useless snapbow dropping from his hands.
The Worm were on him, three or four of them, but he got his own sword out as their blows fell on his armour, one arm up to protect his head. Should have worn the helm. Not as though there’s much to see down here, anyway.
He lunged, with one of the enemy virtually falling onto his blade, the bronze scales of its armour parting with minimal resistance against his keen steel.
He was no swordsman, not really, but he had fought. He had been trained in the Prowess Forum, and marched with the Empire, and held the bridge at Khanaphes.
He had no sense of the rest of the world, right then, hacking at everything that presented itself in the hope that it was an enemy. His edge bit home over and over, though he took half a dozen blows for each one he struck. They rattled and banged against his indomitable mail, a constant shock and jolt that he almost found himself becoming used to.
Given a few moment’s breath, after killing his seventh, he donned his helm. He had been a fool to go without it. In his head was still that yawning abyss where understanding had once sat, but he had now completed his shell that was hard proof against the weapons of the enemy. They were faster than him, and they were so very many, but he let them break like a tide against his carapace, body after body of them as the Worm tried to bring him down. Its coils were all about him, laying hands on him, stabbing and hacking and sawing, but he lopped at wrists and thrust at faces and cut and cut and cut, and the soulless husks fell away, and tripped him even after they were dead.
Then the last fugitive lantern, which had been burning on its side where some desperate slave had dropped it, went out.
He found it made no difference. He had long ago lost any ability to dodge or to ward off the enemy, and they were all around him, leaping onto the razor of his blade, dragging at him, pulling him down.
His sword lodged deep in one and left his hand, but by then he had barely been able to swing it. He felt hands on him, crawling for weak points but not understanding how the mail was made: a blade trying to pry between the lames of his shoulderguards, nails scratching impotently at his helm but missing the eyeslot.
Then nothing, a sudden cessation of movement, so that he lay half covered by the fallen, sightless and alone.
Or not alone? It was dark, so how could he know what was creeping softly towards him. Bizarrely, this sensation of uncertainty inspired a deeper dread than the actual fighting had. How much better to know that they were trying to kill you.
‘Do you live?’
A voice. A human voice. Though his enemies had looked like men, he could not imagine them aspiring to anything so familiar as speech.
‘Stranger, do you live?’
A voice he had heard recently. Messel’s voice.
‘Just about,’ he replied to the darkness. ‘I lost my sword. Get these bastards off me.’
He held still, feeling dead flesh slide and shift away, cringing from the unlimited blackness on all sides. At last he sat up, feeling a thousand small bruises, but no more.
That’s good mail. And he properly understood that it was, and why, and realized that the enemy were gone for now. And my armour and my sword, they are an artifice the enemy cannot take from me. I do not need to understand their metallurgy or their forging to benefit from them.
‘We got the lot?’ he asked.
‘They are dead. You and I live. I stood in your shadow as you fought. Your last enemy, I slew myself.’ Messel sounded slightly awed. ‘You are truly her champion.’