Best Laid Plans (23 page)

He continued to draw upon the puissance of his hammer, his veins swelling, his skin stretched to bursting. His eyes snapped wide and a scream tore from his throat as golden light exploded with the brilliance of a million stars.

The undead wailed and then flew towards him, sucked by tremendous force. Wave after wave spun towards the hammer-head, vanishing into the air the instant they touched it. As the last of them passed from existence, Maldark collapsed to his knees, feeling as if he’d aged a century. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart rattled against his ribs, but it didn’t matter. He’d triumphed, and in some small way he’d started to atone.

The hammer sent a trickle of warmth up his arms, settling his breathing and granting him the strength to stand. The radiance faded from the head and the haft grew cold as ice.

The chill extended to his spine, the nape of his neck. A shadow fell over his mind and Maldark clenched his teeth. There was always a price to pay. As he’d expected, his use of the power in his hammer hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Perhaps there was still time. If he could just make it to a building…

Barely had he taken a step when a gigantic black hand materialized in the air before him. Maldark felt a sickening dread he’d not experienced for centuries; a naked vulnerability at the core of his being. He’d felt it before, back on Aethir. That was the day he’d betrayed Eingana.

***

Fleshless hands closed around Hagalle’s neck. He rammed his elbow back, wincing as it struck bone. A skeletal rider flung itself from its horse, but he ran it through the ribs even as more hands pulled him from behind. He shifted his weight, twisted and hurled his assailant over his head to crash into the nearest death-knights. A blade clanged off his breastplate and Hagalle chopped down, severing an arm. Something white flashed to his right. He spun, ready to strike.

‘Climb up.’ A sandy-haired youth on a grey horse offered his hand.

Hagalle swung into the saddle behind him and gripped hard with his knees. The horse reared as two of the undead cavalry charged. The lad hacked the head from the first knight and the grey smashed its hooves into the other’s horse, splintering bone and pitching the rider to the ground.

‘Hold on,’ the youth called over his shoulder as they thundered towards a line of undead horsemen.

Hagalle toppled backwards, but managed to catch hold of the lad’s cloak. His sword arm trailed behind, and it was all he could do to keep his grip on the weapon. They hit the death-knights with a thunderous crack. Shards of bone shot all around them, but the lad leaned low against the horse’s mane and Hagalle buried his face in the cloak.

‘We’re through!’ the lad cried as they hit the broad avenue and kept going.

Hagalle turned his head and saw a dozen or so white-garbed knights following them. The death-knights were in disarray, but they were already re-forming.

‘Stop,’ he called out. ‘We must go back.’ The youth slowed to a canter as the other knights drew alongside. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘That’d be suicide.’ ‘Do you know who I am, boy?’ Hagalle growled, and then he caught sight of the lad’s face. ‘I know who you are.’ It was Barek Thomas, the lad Hagalle had recently crucified. ‘And you’re too important to lose.’ Hagalle shook his head. Curse his cowardly body, he’d started to tremble now he was out of the battle. ‘Why?’ Barek met his gaze. ‘Because that’s what we were trained to do.’
148

Hagalle rubbed at his temples. It made no sense. ‘My men,’ he muttered. ‘We can’t leave them.’

‘They’re dead,’ Barek said.

A red-haired knight rode alongside. ‘As we’ll be, if we don’t keep moving.’

‘Glad you made it, Justin,’ Barek said. ‘Elgin? Solomon?’

Justin pointed to a brawny youth and a skinny runt sharing a water-skin and casting nervous glances back towards the square.

Barek nodded, but there was no joy in his eyes. There were only twelve riders remaining.

‘How many…?’ Hagalle started to ask.

‘Too many,’ Barek said, spurring the horse on as the death-knights drew up for another charge.

***

Maldark dropped his hammer as the black hand snatched him up and soared into the air high above the city. A chilling voice cut through his awareness.

‘I know you.’

The voice had a grating quality. It sounded clipped and artificial, but there was no denying who it belonged to.

‘Sektis Gandaw.’ The name left Maldark’s lips like a curse.

‘Maldark the turncoat. How did you get here?’

The giant fingers tightened around his ribs.

‘A swirling eye,’ Maldark said. ‘A stormy sea. The Lord cast me into Gehenna and I passed into the Abyss. Next I appeared upon a red mountain in the desert.’

‘Mystical nonsense,’ Sektis Gandaw said. ‘And to think I held such high hopes for the dwarves. That’s what happens when you throw in rogue genes. I assume you know where the statue is. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Thou art the all-seeing one,’ Maldark said. ‘Why doest thou not tell me where it is?’

The hand released him and Maldark plummeted towards the ground. He closed his eyes and steeled himself for death, but the impact never came. His head was wrenched back and there was excruciating pain in his face and neck. He hung suspended by his beard, which was gripped by the thumb and forefinger of the giant hand.

‘I’d rather hoped,’ said Sektis Gandaw’s voice in his head, ‘your face would come away with the beard. You dwarves are too full of surprises. See how easy it is to kill you. You’re nothing but an insect. You were at the centre of a power surge, dwarf. Tell me, where is the statue? Do you have a piece?’

‘What if I do? Doest thou forget, I’ve seen inside your mountain? Thy secrets are known to me. The black hand lacks the power to carry objects through the planes. Death holds no fear for me. Perhaps God will still be merciful. Drop me.’

Maldark spasmed as sparks erupted around the hand.

‘Nothing!’ The hand shook him. ‘What have you done with it?’

The fingers started to blink in and out of existence and Maldark fell.

‘I’ll find it,’ Sektis Gandaw’s voice echoed as the hand winked out of view.

Maldark dropped limply through the air. He held his arms wide and smiled. He hit something, bounced, and then tumbled down a rooftop. Instinctively, he clutched at the guttering as he rolled over the edge. Pain lanced through his shoulder and he let go, bouncing off a ledge and landing with a sickening thud on the ground.

He lay there for a minute and then gingerly started to test his limbs. Nothing broken, but he was going to hurt like hell on the morrow. He rolled to his knees and carefully stood. His skull felt like it was being pounded with a thousand sledgehammers and he staggered and nearly collapsed. Shaking his head to clear it, he took a faltering step and tripped over the haft of his hammer.
Strange sort of luck,
Maldark grumbled internally as he lifted it.
Arnochian granite.
He patted the hammer-head. Must have kept Sektis Gandaw from detecting what was within. Whatever claims the Technocrat made about the creation of the dwarves, they had more tricks up their sleeves than he could account for.

Shouldering the weapon, he muttered a prayer for the others and stumbled in the direction of the river. He was sure he’d seen a tavern there. A drink or two to restore his soul and then he’d summon his boat and return to the ocean. Sektis Gandaw had the scent of him now. There was no point imperilling the others.

***

What is that fearsome clatter?

‘You drop something dear?’ Starn mumbled into the dirt.

What on earth was he doing on the ground? Last thing he remembered was opening a bottle of Shiraz out on the porch. Can’t have drunk that much, surely.

He covered his ears with his hands as a roaring tumult passed all around him. It sounded like a river bursting its banks, or the approach of a cyclone.

‘Ethna? Ethna, are you all right?’

He had to get back to the house, shutter the windows. Oh, where was Mrs Starn?

And then he remembered.

Starn sat up and watched the death-knights thunder past, pooling at the mouth of the southern alleyway and then filtering through two at a time.

Dalglish groaned beside him. ‘What’s that racket?’ he rasped.

Dalglish was lying in a puddle of blood, most of which seemed to be coming from his arm. Starn fumbled about in his pocket for his handkerchief and applied pressure the way the surgeons did. It was then that he noticed another wound—a bubbling slit beneath Dalglish’s breastbone. Dalglish’s eyes opened a little and his cracked and dry lips parted.

‘Shhh,’ Starn said. ‘They’re going, Captain, though goodness knows why. Just you lie still.’

Shouts went up from the eastern avenue and men began to stream into the square. Armoured men. Familiar men. Men of the Imperial army.

‘Here!’ Starn waved to get their attention. ‘Man down. We need help.’

Hundreds of soldiers advanced, teams of them going to secure the entrances.

‘Let them go!’ Duke Farian shouted above the hubbub.

As the Duke stood surveying the carnage the Emperor strode to his side. Farian said something and pointed at Starn. With that, Hagalle pushed his way through the ranks of soldiers and came to kneel at Starn’s side.

‘General,’ he said, voice thick with emotion. ‘Thank the gods you made it.’

There were tears in the Emperor’s eyes, and for a moment Starn thought Hagalle was going to hug him.

‘Dalglish is hurt,’ Starn said.

‘A surgeon!’ Hagalle bellowed into the mass of troops.

‘What’s happening?’ Dalglish said in a reedy voice.

‘Doctor’s coming.’ Starn smiled down at him. ‘You’ll be right as rain in a few days.’

Dalglish’s head rolled to the side, the barest of smiles touching his lips. ‘Think the Emperor will send me home?’

Starn looked at Hagalle. The Emperor’s face was drawn, the tears falling freely. Starn stroked the hair away from Dalglish’s face.

‘Course he will, lad. Course he will. And when you get there, tell Mrs Starn I said to make you some chicken soup.’

Dalglish gave a rattling sigh.

‘Tell her that from me, lad,’ Starn said. ‘Nice bowl of soup. Have you better in no time.’

But Dalglish was no longer listening.

A
s a child, Shadrak might’ve thought this latest turn of events was unfair. Against his better judgement he’d led a posse of prats into the Maze, almost lost his life in the process, and then ended up enslaved by the Technocrat of the Ancients’ world—a man who should have returned to the dust centuries ago. As if that weren’t enough, once he’d fulfilled his task to assassinate Shader and steal the statue, he’d been chased by some kind of ghost and then set upon by the crazed son of Bovis Rayn. To add insult to injury, he’d not only lost some of his best weapons in the fight, but he’d picked up some nasty bruises from the black-haired bitch along the way. And to think she’d seemed no more than a sad drunk that night at the Griffin. That fateful bloody night.

If he hadn’t been contracted to kill Bovis Rayn, he wouldn’t have been shot with his own weapon. If he hadn’t needed treatment from Cadman, he’d have never gone to the pub, never gotten involved with this Eingana business. If he hadn’t run into mawgs in the Maze, and if Kadee’s lingering influence hadn’t made him inform the Sicarii, he’d not have been sent back with the journeymen. If he’d listened to his instincts and run when he’d had the chance, he wouldn’t now be pressed in amongst a horde of mangy mawgs waiting to disembark.

The statue was bad news, he was certain of that. And there were things happening that were unnatural, to say the least. The shadowy presence of Sektis Gandaw, the dark wraith that had pursued him, and then, during the brief sea battle with the carrack, he’d seen the man he’d recently stabbed in the back staring at him across the waves. Shadrak dealt in certainties. His reputation had been built on careful planning, stealth, and making sure the odds were stacked decisively in his favour. Whatever was happening here, the child Shadrak would have definitely whined that it was unfair. But Shadrak was no longer a child, and if he’d learnt anything from adulthood it was that life wasn’t fair. You only had to look at Kadee’s slow death to see that. You only had to look at the scorn he’d endured growing up. Sometimes his victims would beg for mercy, and when they realized it was in short demand, they’d sometimes cry about it not being fair.
Who says fair has anything to do with it?
he’d say. The strong and the cunning survive, the weak perish. That’s just the way it is.