City of Dreams and Nightmare (27 page)

Then he started to run. There wasn’t much room, only enough for a few precious sprinted steps, before he spread his arms and took to the air, accompanied by jeers and catcalls from the nicks.

A few stones shot towards him, but none found their target, and then he was sailing over their heads, gaining height the whole while. With a dip of the shoulder he banked left, taking in as he did so another street not far away, where a thin line of brown and orange was struggling to contain a seething mass of youths. The fighting there had already degenerated to hand-to-hand and the heavily outnumbered guards looked to be in trouble. But Tylus had his own responsibilities. His banking manoeuvre brought him around in a tight circle and, seconds after taking off, he raced back over the heads of his own unit, firing the netting gun as he did so. The weighted corners shot out, deploying the net, which fell to engulf the front ranks of street-nicks.

On cue, the thin line of guards charged forward, unleashing their puncheons as they reached the entangled nicks, bringing them down swiftly. Having turned as rapidly as possible, Tylus came back over the scene, narrowly avoiding a crossbow quarrel which spat up towards him from the mass of nicks and grateful that it didn’t catch his cape. He couldn’t afford to be grounded now.

He landed beside the flechette gunner, calling out to Richardson and the others to withdraw, which they did, some a little more reluctantly than others, evidently enjoying the opportunity to administer a beating. One of the stragglers didn’t make it back but was dropped by a crossbow bolt which skewered him through the side. The man fell to the ground still alive, and tried to drag himself forward.

Tylus watched in horror. He didn’t want to order an advance and risk being overwhelmed by the street-nick’s greater numbers, but at the same time couldn’t just abandon the wounded officer.

Nicks from further back in the mob were already climbing over and around their fallen colleagues, and judging by the shouts and gesticulations, they weren’t feeling in any way calmer.

The flechette gunner was finally ready again. He looked enquiringly at Tylus, who nodded immediately. The guardsman wasted no further time, raising his weapon and pulling the trigger in one swift movement.

The instant he fired, Tylus ran forward to the injured man, peeling him away from the red smear of blood which marked his efforts to crawl across the dusty ground, and helping him up, having to half-carry, half-support him as they staggered back towards the other guards. Richardson appeared on the man’s far side to help but unfortunately their bravery proved to be in vain. Even as they reached the line of orange and brown, the Kite Guard felt the officer’s body jerk. A second bolt had taken him through the back. Blood welled from the man’s mouth and his eyes stared blankly. He was dead.

Tylus estimated there were still some two dozen nicks standing, which was still too many. He had the flechette gunner retreat twenty paces to reload, with instructions to cover their retreat when it came, which it inevitably would. With great reluctance, he gave the order he’d been dreading to his remaining men: “Sheath puncheons and draw swords. Advance in line.”

They walked forward slowly, but the nicks came at them in a rush, preceded by a few large stones, too few to be much of a threat, then the nicks were upon them.

One officer, to the far right, went down almost immediately. Tylus parried a knife thrust with his sword, punched a nick in the face, and then barely knocked another knife aside as it came at his exposed side. In doing so, he stepped back and nearly tripped over the man beside him, Richardson.

The Kite Guard wasn’t used to this type of a fight, he doubted whether any of them were. What he had envisaged as an orderly line of officers repelling a sea of hostile youths quickly degenerated into a melee which would suit the larger numbers of nicks for all that this was swords against knives. Besides, when the fighting got this close, knives were, if anything, an advantage, a fact he realised when barely jumping aside from another thrust aimed by a nick who had stepped inside his guard. The knife scraped the side of his belly, drawing blood. Tylus clumped the youth on the back of the head with the butt of his sword, just as an officer beside him went down with a knife in his belly.

This was achieving nothing. “Withdraw!” he bellowed, lifting and throwing the nick in front of him away with both hands, sending him sprawling into a pair behind, feeling his sword bite into the lad’s torso as he did so.

A wonderful word, “withdraw”, Tylus reflected as he sprinted back to where the flechette gunner waited. So much more dignified than “run”.

As he ran, sword still clutched in one hand, he fumbled at his belt with the other, struggling to grasp one of their few remaining precious weapons: a dazzle bomb. Finally freeing it, he threw the fist-sized missile under-arm towards the ground behind him.

The result was spectacular, the street lighting up whitely, glaringly so, as if a miniature sun had just been born. Tylus saw his shadow and those of the other fleeing officers race ahead, reaching the flechette gunner in an instant and spearing beyond him. At the same time, the Kite Guard’s vision dulled as the helmet visor darkened in response to the flaring light.

From behind came cries of dismay, consternation and fear, as the nicks were temporarily blinded by the glare. The light was short-lived, gone in less than a second, but the dazzle bomb had done its job. The guards slowed and, at a signal from Tylus, moved to the sides of the road, giving the gunner a clear shot. The man took his time before firing, but when he did so, the darts cut a swathe through the stumbling, disorientated nicks.

Tylus signalled to his men, sheathing his sword and drawing his puncheon again. Within seconds, Tylus, Richardson and the other three remaining guards were among the fumbling, ineffectual nicks, using their puncheons to good effect on those still standing. Only as they were doing so did Tylus realise that Richardson had suffered a deep wound to the upper arm. His left hand hung limp and useless, while the shirt above it was soaked in blood. Fortunately, this fight was over, the remaining nicks quickly neutralised.

All the officers carried reels of wide and strong sticky tape, which they used to bind the unconscious nicks’ hands. Less reliable than iron, but a lot easier to carry. Four of the fallen guards were dead, but one still clung to life. Unable to take part in securing the street-nicks due to his own injury, Richardson tended the wounded guardsman.

Tylus looked at his tired and bloodied men, none of whom had escaped unscathed, and felt a swell of pride. The City Below guards might have a reputation for being corrupt and ineffectual, but no one could question the courage of these officers who had fought beside him today.

He was about to say as much to them, but was forestalled by a sudden commotion, a growing noise which seemed to emanate from the top of this street. He looked up with a growing sense of dread. Sure enough, a group of rampaging nicks appeared from around the corner. As soon as they took in the scene, with the few battered guards standing over the fallen nicks, they started to charge forward, yelling their defiance.

Tylus supposed he should feel grateful; after all, this was a much smaller mob – no more than thirty of them at most.

“Flechette gunner,” he said, on a throat suddenly as dry as sawdust, “stand ready!”

FIFTEEN

As Tom stared at the tattooed man, he felt suddenly defeated, as if all that he and Kat had gone through in the past few days had been for nothing. There was no question in his mind that Rayul had fallen prey to one of the Maker’s devices. It was only a few hours ago that they left him with good will and friendly words, yet now this formidable tattooed man faced them as an enemy. Tom barely knew Rayul but felt this was someone he could have liked. The remaining energy seemed to drain from his limbs and Tom knew that there was no way he could stand against Rayul in a fight at that moment, which meant it was all down to Kat. How in the world was she supposed to oppose him, one of her closest friends?

“I’m not your enemy, Kat,” Rayul said, his voice so reasonable, so normal, as if she were the one acting out of character. “Why are we fighting?” He took a slow step forward as he spoke.

“Stay back, Rayul!” Tom could hear the upset in her voice, though the knife remained steady in her hand as she held it out point-first towards her friend.

“This isn’t what you think. Look at me, Kat.” The tattooed man held his arms open. “This is still me standing here in front of you, but a better me, that’s all. Everything is so much clearer now. It’s a wonderful, liberating experience, not something to be afraid of. All that any of us want is for you to join us, so that you can feel what this is like for yourself.”

The girl shook her head. Were those tears in her eyes? “Anything that’s so insistent I should join isn’t something I want to be a part of, thanks. Why do you think I left the Tattooed Men in the first place?”

“But this isn’t the same. There’s no Chavver to start with, and this is so much more.” He sounded so certain, so enthused and, worst of all, so much like the same man who had discovered them in the attic room that very morning. This must be torture for Kat.

“Stay back, I said!” The girl shrieked as he edged another step forward.

“You can’t win, Kat, you know that and I know that.” His tone changed abruptly; the warmth and friendliness instantly replaced by a harder and totally confident edge as he presumably realised he was not going to win Kat over with persuasive words alone. “The boy’s too tired or too scared to fight and we outnumber you fifteen to one.”

Tom bridled but stayed quiet, not wanting to distract Kat. In truth, the more Rayul spoke, the angrier he was becoming and with the anger a little strength was starting to return to his limbs.

“But why bother?” Kat asked. “You know I’m going to take a few more of you with me. So what if you do succeed in ‘converting’ me? In the end, you’ll still have lost more than you gain.”

“You don’t understand, do you? It doesn’t work like that. This is our mission: to convert all those we can. If a few of us fall by the wayside, so be it.”

“What then, Rayul? Once all the nicks in the City Below have joined you, what happens next?”

He laughed, casually, as if sharing some joke with a friend. “Then the real fun begins. Come on, Kat, be a part of the most exciting thing to happen down here in years.”

“Not. A. Breckin’. Chance!” She pronounced each word slowly and precisely, emphasising the statement with a defiant glare which lifted Tom’s spirits enormously.

His side still burned, his head still felt as if it didn’t fully belong to his body, but a sense of calm settled over him, of resignation. He had no idea how he managed to destroy the Maker’s devices when they attacked Kat but knew he wouldn’t be able to do it again for a while, not with his head feeling as it did. He could produce no miracle to save them this time. It was quite possible that he would die here, and something deep inside him accepted that fact but, if that was to be the way of things, he had no intention of going down meekly.

“Fifteen to two,” he said, coming up to stand fully beside Kat. “Those odds you mentioned, it’s fifteen to two, not one.”

Rayul laughed. “And you think you’re going to make a difference, kid?” All attempts to cajole and persuade had disappeared from the tattooed man’s voice now, to be replaced by an arrogance that Tom couldn’t recall hearing from him before he was converted.

The rest of the nicks had begun shifting restlessly, as if restrained by Rayul’s authority but only just. They wanted to pile into a fight and Tom wondered how long their patience would last. He recognised at least two familiar faces among them; Sand Dragons he had come into contact with at various times. One, Brent, a tall stringy lad with sandy hair and broken teeth, was someone he used to hang with sometimes when things were quiet for both gangs. The boy looked over, seeing Tom gaze at him, and nodded greeting, smiling his uneven smile. The gesture was so typical, so normal, that it disturbed Tom deeply.

Rayul sighed. “Very well, we’ll do this your way.”

In the blink of an eye he drew his short sword with his right hand while another weapon appeared in his left. At least, Tom assumed it was a weapon; he had never seen anything quite like it. The object resembled a section of netting, perhaps half a metre square, although clearly it was woven from interlinking loops of metal, and one end was weighted down with small silver metal balls. The tattooed man held it at the opposite end, so that the links were squashed together and the weighted balls hung downward. Then, as he and Kat faced each other, both crouching and shifting from foot to foot, he began to swing the peculiar weapon.

The other nicks continued to hang back, apparently willing to accept this as a personal duel for the moment, though he didn’t doubt they would pounce on him in an instant once the confrontation ended; Kat too, assuming she survived. In fact, everybody shuffled back a few paces, to give the fighters a little more room.

The first aggressive move came from Rayul, who lashed out with the weighted mesh, attempting to snare one of Kat’s blades. She flicked her knife out of the way with a twist of her wrist and then converted the evasion into an attacking move of her own, seeking to bring the blade down onto Rayul’s exposed forearm. He in turn was too quick for her, withdrawing his hand and the weapon it held.

He laughed. “Fast as ever.”

Kat made no response.

Next Rayul feinted as if again about to strike with the mesh but then he lunged forward with his knife. Kat spun to her left and out of the way, bringing one of her own blades around and down. They clashed, steel on steel. Kat’s second blade came in behind the first and was likewise parried. The two moved apart and resumed their prowling, shifting from side to side in unison, always facing each other, like a pair of synchronised crabs. This time it was Kat who attacked, dancing forward, her arms and knives flowing through a sequence of lightning-quick moves which kept one blade or the other constantly striking towards her opponent. He had no choice but to back away, his own blade blocking hers and the mesh twirling a curtain of steel.

Kat’s attack relented with no apparent result and the two faced each other again, The tattooed man now stood with his back to Tom, so close that he could have reached out and touched him. He had to shuffle to one side to see Kat at all.

Then Rayul did the unexpected, at least as far as Tom was concerned. With no warning, no apparent change of action at all, he released the weighted mesh. It flew the short distance to smack into Kat’s hand, and wrist, wrapping around them. She cried out in surprise and pain as at least one of the steel balls struck her wrist, presumably numbing it, because the knife dropped from her hand. Rayul moved in swiftly, following up immediately behind the thrown weapon. Kat reacted, but a fraction too slowly. Tom watched in horror as the tattooed man’s blade bit into her side even as she attempted to sway out of the way. Then the pair of them closed, grappling so tightly that it was impossible to see what was happening from where he stood. Both knives were hidden by Rayul’s back as they struggled, wrestling and squirming, feet shuffling as each tried to trip the other while avoiding being tripped themselves. Tom’s anguish grew – it seemed certain that the larger and presumably stronger man must win any contest fought at such close quarters. Suddenly, the two figures stopped. He knew instinctively that the fight was over and waited in dread to see Kat fall. He didn’t want to look but was unable to turn away. Yet both of them stood there for an apparent age, before each took a shuffling step backwards, followed by another.

Tom saw clearly the moment when Rayul’s legs buckled. The big man’s knees seemed to give way and he simply wilted to the ground. Beyond him, Kat stood with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her long knife dangled in limp fingers by her side, red with her friend’s blood, while her whole frame shook with the sobs that welled-up from deep within. Tom rushed forward, wanting to hold her, to comfort her, but his movement seemed to break the trance and suddenly all the other nicks were coming forward as well.

Tom thrust Kat behind him, standing between the girl and the nicks, menacing them with his woefully inadequate knife. This was it, he knew: the moment he was destined to die.

Instead, even as he braced himself for the fatal blow, the wall to one of the buildings behind the mob of nicks erupted – stone and brick flew out as if struck by an irresistible force. Almost immediately, the wall on the opposite side of the alley did the same. Time seemed to stand still as everyone stared, and through the still-collapsing walls, two figures out of nightmare emerged. Humanoid in shape, but impossibly tall, standing a full head and shoulders above the tallest man Tom had ever before seen. They were black from head to toe. Not dressed in black but apparently dipped in it; a seamless, gleaming jet which seemed to suck in all available light. They looked like somebody’s idealised image of the human form, carved from burnished ebony and made real, but with the features still to be painted on.

Tom stared and knew terror beyond anything previously felt. All he could do was whisper, “the Blade!”

They moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow, crashing into the street-nicks, fists a blur. Perhaps half the youths had been felled before the others could react – some were sent flying through the air to crash into walls while others were simply swatted to the ground. No weapons, Tom noted, they only used their fists, but fists proved more than enough. To their credit, some of the street-nicks tried to rally, to defend themselves and fight back, but they were battered aside with contemptuous ease. The remaining lads, three of them, turned and ran for all they were worth. Even the goading of the Maker’s devices had limits, it would seem. The towering black figures made no attempt to follow.

All he could think was
The Blade!

A name feared by every denizen of the under-City, though none had been seen here in more than a generation. Inhuman warriors, the Blade had been stationed in these streets during the height of the war, and had terrorised them. Unflinching in their dedication and relentless in the prosecution of their duty, they had been charged with ferreting out spies and saboteurs and collaborators, dispensing their own brand of abrupt justice as they deemed fit. Hundreds, perhaps thousands had died, and word had it that the Blade were not overly careful to discriminate between friend and foe.

Tom stared at these apparitions, totally unmanned. He was aware of Kat beside him, though even she found nothing to say for once.

Were they going to be next to feel the Blade’s form of justice?

One of the two dark creatures faced him and said in a surprisingly normal male voice, “You two, come with us.”

Movement from the ground caught Tom’s eye. He looked down to see Rayul’s eyes flicker. He was still alive! Kat knelt down in an instant, holding his head.

“Rayul?” Her tears flowed freely.

The tattooed man raised a gentle hand to grasp hers. “Don’t remember me like this, Kat, please…the good times, Kat…the good times.”

Then the hand fell away and his eyes stared unseeing.

“Rayul!”

“Hurry, we must go,” the Blade said.

“Where are you taking us?” Tom demanded.

“To the temple of Thaiss.”

Tom knelt and, his hands on her shoulders, guided Kat to her feet. “We’re going to have to do as they say, Kat.”

“I know.” She shrugged off his grasp, raised her hands to rub at her eyes, then bent down to scoop up her fallen blade, sheathing it. She looked across at him and simply nodded her readiness.

They set off, with one of the Blade in front and the other behind, forming as unlikely a company as Tom could ever have imagined, his growing conviction that the world had gone utterly mad confirmed.

Tylus realised exactly how much trouble they were in as soon as the flechette gunner fired. This group of nicks were clearly a lot cannier than the first lot, perhaps learning from previous skirmishes. Planks of wood, scraps of metal sheeting and even a section of broken door were raised as makeshift shields. Whereas previously the gun’s discharge had cut a swathe through the recklessly advancing nicks, this time only four went down.

The Kite Guard knew his men had fought bravely, but he also knew they stood no chance of defeating this second mob and saw little point in throwing away lives to no purpose. Already there were a few crossbows being readied among the front ranks of nicks and several stones were lobbed, falling short, but that was enough to decide it for him. Reluctant as he was to withdraw and leave this section of the city open to the mob, there seemed little option. With a sinking heart, Tylus drew out their final weapon, the second flash bomb, and prepared to throw it.

“When this goes off,” he said quietly to his men, “retreat.”

“Do you mean run, sir?” the flechette gunner asked.

“Yes,” he admitted, “that’s exactly what I mean.”

He looked across at Richardson, whose left arm hung limp, blood soaking through the length of the sleeve.

“I’ll be fine,” Richardson assured him.

A crossbow bolt fizzed through the air, narrowly missing Tylus’s ear, and another struck the wall against which Richardson was leaning, spraying forth stony splinters. There was no more time to waste. Tylus raised his arm, preparatory to throwing the bomb, when something caused him to pause. The street-nicks were wavering, their bows lowered. They were pointing and shouting, edging backwards. Those at the back broke off and started to run away. Tylus’s heart leapt: reinforcements!