‘As soon as they’re in the room,’ Kyne whispered. ‘Hit them with everything you’ve got.’ The strange harmonics surrounding his voice made it sound like it was coming from inside Crake’s head. ‘Start with the screamers. Dampers right after. I’ll take care of two of them. The last one we catch with the harmonic arc generators.’
I’ll take care of two of them. How could he be so confident? What did any of them know about the Imperators, really?
Well, they fell down if you tore their heads off. He’d seen that. So maybe a man like Kyne could take care of two of them. Maybe that cannon of his was thralled with something spectacular.
Maybe.
Silence fell, but for the faint sounds of combat that floated to them across the chasm, the low whistle of the mountain winds and the grizzling fire. Now they were no longer moving, the tension of the situation began to pile up inside them. Crake peered round the edge of the settee, into the shadowed room beyond the doorway. Dread was coming for them, dread greater that the mind could endure. He stared into the dark, convinced with the certainty of a frightened child that monsters lurked there.
A shadow moved. He froze. A product of his tormented imagination? He strained his eyes to see.
A burning log snapped like a gunshot in the grate. Crake jumped, but not as hard as Plome. The politician lurched halfway to his feet in fright. His arm wheeled as his backpack threatened to overbalance him. He teetered, then went down to his knees in an effort to correct himself. The weight of the pack tipped him forward, and he threw his hands out to stop himself bashing into the harpsichord. It moved as he touched it, its feet screeching across the parquet floor, and every string in its body resounded with a cacophonous din.
The clashing and chiming faded into an appalled and horrified silence. Nobody dared to move or breathe. Plome’s eyes were as round as peeled eggs.
The shadows on the other side of the doorway seemed to thicken like treacle.
And then the terror came.
It bore down on Crake with almost physical force, a freezing weight heavy on his shoulders. Panic exploded in his breast. His mouth was dry, ears singing, heart thumping wildly. The darkness in the room had become the harbour of a thousand fears, but none greater than what waited beyond the doorway. There he sensed evil, so dense it dripped from the air.
He had to get away. It was a desperate need, the only thing in his mind: to run from that unseen malevolence. But he couldn’t move. His muscles had gone weak. The harpsichord crashed again and he saw Plome flailing. The Chancellor tried to get to his feet, failed, and finally curled into an awkward ball, his pack like a protective shell. Even with all his thralled equipment, Kyne wasn’t immune. The Century Knight staggered away from the doorway, clutching himself, and fell against the wall.
No help. No hope. No one to save him.
Crake went down on his hands and knees, nails clawing along the parquet floor. His fingers tangled in one of the many wires and cables that surrounded him, and something metal jerked loose from his belt and clattered loudly to the floor. He cringed from the noise. Please-pleaseplease don’t let them notice me.
They didn’t even need to be in the room. They just needed to know where their targets were. How could you fight something like that? How could you even try?
The fear was intensifying. His chest tightened, heart slamming against his ribs. It was difficult to draw breath.
They can kill you just by thinking about it.
His vision blurred with tears. He looked down between his hands and saw the object that had fallen from his belt. A metal sphere, attached by wires to a battery on his belt.
Damper sphere.
He heard the words in his head, but they didn’t mean anything. He fell over on to his side. He couldn’t support himself any more. Through the gap beneath the settee, he could see across the firelit room to the doorway. Something moved beyond it, a dark figure, sliding through the shadow.
Damper sphere.
And now the words connected through the fog in his mind, and found meaning. The damper sphere. It could stop the fear. It could take this unbearable feeling away.
With a monumental effort, he turned his head. His cheek was pressed to the floor. The damper sphere lay half a metre away from him. A small round button protruded from it. He tried to raise his arm and couldn’t. There was no strength in him. His salvation lay right there and he couldn’t reach it.
They’re coming they’re coming they’re coming.
He wanted to be sick. He wanted to wet himself. Tears dripped from his eyes. His body shook and his bones felt liquid. His heart was slamming so hard and so fast that each beat became agony.
Reach, he told himself. Reach for it.
His vision was dimming, sparkles crowding in at the edges. He couldn’t move. So cruel to die now, when he was so happy, when he had-
Samandra.
And he saw her, like a flashpan had gone off in his mind. Samandra, a vivacious, beautiful explosion of life. Samandra.
He gritted his teeth, body shuddering, lips a trembling snarl. He wouldn’t give her up. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t!
With a surge that was half terror and half fury, he brought his hand up and slapped it down on the button of the damper sphere.
The effect was immediate. The damper sphere vibrated and throbbed, throwing out a low buzzing hum, a mix of sonics that surrounded them in a null-field. The Imperator’s influence was flung off him, the weight whipped away from his body. He gasped in a breath as the band round his chest loosened.
But though the power of the Imperators was lifted from him, genuine fear and fright remained. He had seconds to act before the damper ran out. Panicking, he scrabbled at his belt, found the screamer, hit it. A shriek cut through the air: wild sonics lashed the area. From the room beyond, he heard the Imperators howl, their voices lifting as one in a cold animal screech.
The sound was too much for him in his present state. All thought of defeating the enemy was gone; he just wanted to escape them. Without even looking at his companions, he blundered to his feet and ran, and ran, and ran.
Thirty
Ashua sighted down the barrel of the pistol, using both hands and the windowsill to steady her aim. It was a long shot, and the snow made it harder. She breathed out and squeezed the trigger.
Out there in the meadows, one of the grey hurrying figures toppled over and lay still.
She felt nothing for her target. He was just a shape, an anonymous man in a bulky coat, too distant from her life to cause her to care. It was a necessary detachment, born of a childhood in the slums. Life and death was cheap to her. Everyone’s except her own.
To her left, at the other window, Jez was firing with mechanical speed. Her rifle cracked and snapped. Each time, a man went down.
There were too many to hold back for ever, Ashua knew that. But they could make the attack costly enough that the Awakeners might think again, pull back, try another tactic. They could buy time. That was the best they had, right now.
She took aim and fired again. This time she hit nothing. Her target kept coming, forging on through the snow, making a trench with his thighs. Someone shot at her from the meadow; a bullet smacked into the wall near the window, scattering brick shards. She ignored it. Her second shot dropped the man.