Charra should have known better: I didn’t give a toss what the gods thought of me and I’d quite happily lie to their faces if I could get away with it. “May the Night Bitch rip my balls off with rusty tongs if I lie,” I said. “Even if the titan falls, and we fail too, it might just delay that thing long enough for both of you to lead people to safety. You need to go. Please, I can’t trust anybody else.” Charra gave me a terse nod, grabbed her daughter and sprinted back the way we had come. She wasn’t one to hesitate. A weight lifted from my heart. Whatever else happened, they would survive, and a little bit of Lynas with them.
The titan’s horn blasted again, footsteps thundering as it picked up speed. The Magash Mora’s babbling voices wailed as it surged to meet it with a vomit-inducing liquid slurp. The magical bombardment from the Arcanum slowed as magi strained their Gifts to the limit, pushing themselves close to succumbing to the Worm of Magic. An army of twisted magi without any restraint would be worse than anything the enemy could ever imagine, but Krandus would never allow that to happen. Any that succumbed would be immediately reduced to ash by the Inner Circle.
“Hurry!” Martain shouted. “It’s about to begin.” He pulled ahead and turned a corner to get a better view of the fight. I ignored my burning leg and the tightness in my chest and ran faster.
Docklanders streamed in the opposite direction through the narrow alleys: mothers and fathers clutching wailing infants, wide eyed priests muttering desperate prayers, gang-marked youths carrying the old and infirm, and even a handful of bloodied wardens helping to direct them and keep everyone calm. Each and every one of them looked at us like we were cracked for running towards the monsters. It was a fight for the likes of gods and elder adepts or legendary heroes, not for mere mortals and shitty little magi like us, but the gods were missing and we were fresh out of heroes. But then, perhaps every hero was just a desperate fool who did what needed to be done, and the songs and stories washed off all the blood and muck, the fear and the pain. Maybe someday a bard would write a song about me, one without all the swearing and drinking and pissing myself in terror.
Ash fell like grey snow, and with it the fleeting thought of corpse dust drawn into mouth and lungs. I felt cut off from reality, sunk in a fever dream of darkest insanity. The number of people on the streets dwindled.
The titan approached Bardok the Hock’s shop, destroying everything in its path. The greedy old man was still there, red-faced and heaving at a bulging sack too stuffed with gold and goods to possibly fit through his doorway. He looked up in time to scream as Lust’s foot fell, crushing body and business both to a flattened paste as it advanced on its foe.
A towering club of bone, claw and hoof, rose straight up from the Magash Mora, spiked tip lost in the smoke. The club listed, then it fell like a toppled oak, crushing buildings beneath the trunk before smashing into the chest of the titan. Lust shivered like an enormous gong, the shockwave of impact spraying living shrapnel, shredding everything nearby.
We ducked into doorways as fragments of bone and nail ricocheted down narrow alleys. My heart hammered as I stared at a splintered human femur embedded in the wall only a hand span away from having torn off my face. Breda hissed in pain, a line of red welling up across her cheek.
As Lust resumed its march, the sanctors charged ahead and I followed. Bardok was slippery and squishy underfoot and I didn’t dare look down. The titan staggered, steam hissing from cracks spider webbed across its torso. Armoured feet stamped down as it righted itself, leaving craters. Flesh sucked and squelched as the Magash Mora drew back and reformed the club for another blow. An enormous metal gauntlet plunged into the remains of the club and took hold, metal and muscle straining in a contest of monstrous strength.
With glacial slowness Lust was dragged towards gnashing maws and spiked tentacles. The titan’s sword cranked higher for another blow, shearing through the club’s trunk. Separated from the main body, the fleshy weapon the size of a block of tenements exploded from the inside. It crashed to earth and slumped in on itself, spreading like a landed jellyfish.
The Magash Mora’s throats howled in pain, stump flailing like a headless snake, hot blood raining clear across the city. Something that huge had to have thousands of human hearts pumping a staggering volume of blood under a pressure that only flesh strengthened by stolen Gifts and foul magic could possibly withstand.
Lynas’ agony burned in my mind and everything went hazy. I slumped against a blood-slick wall and tried to regain control. We were so close, and the sanctors waited up ahead, unsure of what to do next.
Another volley of burning rocks fell from the sky like Elunnai’s fiery tears. They exploded into the creature’s gaping wound. Scattered cheers erupted in the distance as idiots clambered onto roofs and walls to watch the battle. Sheets of flame roared from the titan to immolate more.
The flailing club-stump ceased spewing blood, and bones slid through the skin to form another spiked maul. Huge red bulges appeared on the thing’s body, swelling up like boils desperate to burst. It convulsed and thick ropes of muscle and bone hooks burst out to snare the titan. Its bulk surged forward, a thousand limbs grasping.
I wiped its blood from my face and stared at my red-smeared, fragile hands. Even Dissever seemed tiny and useless. I’d taken leave of my senses to think we could get anywhere near the core of that thing, never mind hope to cut it out! My heart pounded and my hands were slick with sweat and blood. I couldn’t bear the thought of being absorbed into that thing – not like Lynas. I backed away.
“Walker!” Martain said. “What is wrong?”
What had I been thinking? I was no damn warrior. I turned tail when things got difficult – that was me, the pathetic coward.
I thought about running, but couldn’t take a single step. My retreat was blocked by a ruined figure limping towards me.
Chapter 31
The figure wore half-melted siege-breaker armour, sword dangling from a limp arm and scraping along the ground, while the other hand was fused to the remains of the cuirass. Their hair was burnt to stubble and the left side of the face was a mottled mess of black and red, cheekbone exposed, teeth showing through burnt flesh, the eye socket a charred and empty pit. The other side was almost as bad, skin broken and weeping, what was left of the cheek twisted into agonized grimace, but one pretty green eye was intact – and I recognized both eye and the iron will behind it.
Fear forgotten, I gawped at Eva. “How are you still alive?” She emanated indescribable agony, pain enough to beggar what I was feeling though the bond from Lynas’ Gift. Even for a knight those wounds surely had to be beyond healing, and yet she fought on. Shame overwhelmed me. We had left her for dead.
Her breathing was ragged and wet as she struggled to speak, her voice emerging as tortured groans. Instead she dragged her spirit-bound sword forward into guard position and glared at me. Her intention was clear: she intended to finish this. I shuddered, forcing myself to turn back to face the Magash Mora. If Eva could fight on in that state then so could I.
Martain recognized her sword and his face crumpled, trembling on the verge of losing control. He lifted his sword in salute.
Titanic metal met bone, tooth and claw in ponderous battle: it was not the cut and thrust of merely human fighting but awesome blows exchanged between two giants so massive that even the vast power granted by magic could not entirely overcome their incredible weight.
The mountain of flesh split open like a giant maw to engulf the titan, and once inside I imagined the sheer weight of its body alone might serve to crush the ancient war engine. Blood and charred meat rained down as the titan hacked an entire cliff-face from the beast and spat more liquid fire into the wound.