Kal jerico sinners bount.., p.38
Kal Jerico: Sinner's Bounty, page 38
Baertrum hurried back the way he’d come, trying to formulate a plan. He needed to catch up to the ore-hauler, somehow. That meant going out into the middle of a battle – not ideal. But if he was to have any hope of acquiring the cylinder – and Jerico – it had to be done.
‘Why couldn’t he just have the good grace to stay in one spot?’
Gunfire sounded from close by – the Cawdor were still fighting the muties pouring into the settlement. It was likely a fight they would lose. Baertrum had little interest in sticking around to find out.
The gate was gone when he arrived. There was simply a hole in the palisade, and fire everywhere. Bodies littered the ground and shell casings were so thick underfoot he nearly slipped and fell. Muties mostly, but some Cawdor – not all of them gangers. Wrecked vehicles littered the street, and an idling one sat near the palisade, its driver seemingly slain by a stray round. The stub-cannon on the palisade was still firing, if more slowly. Figures fought amid the flames, and hymns warred with screams.
As Baertrum stepped around a wrecked quad-bike, the machine gave a screech of abused metal. He turned as his augurs pinged. A hulking shape rose, shoving the wreck aside. The reptilian brute wheezed as it studied him. It was wounded, and badly. It gnashed broken fangs and wiped the blood from its mouth. Baertrum raised his needler, wondering if the flechettes would pierce the creature’s hide.
It took a step towards him, flexing its clawed hands. It growled.
‘Guess I’m going to find out,’ he muttered.
The brute roared, but before it could lunge, a bulky shape leapt from the palisade and fell upon it. Big Sledge cracked the beast in the skull with his spud-jacker as he landed. The brute roared again and caught the Goliath by the head. It dragged him from his feet and sent him flying, even as Horst appeared, carrying the engine block of a truck. Horst howled and flung his burden. It struck the brute in the shoulder, spinning it around.
Big Sledge was on it a moment later, battering it about the head and shoulders with his spud-jacker. He grappled with the brute on an almost even footing, and endured its club-like blows. Horst leapt onto its back and snaked an arm about its thick neck. Between them, the two Goliaths slowly beat the mutant down to one knee. Its head was a raw mess, pulped to a dark ruin by Big Sledge. It continued to struggle, clawing at them and gurgling in its own bestial tongue.
Baertrum seized the first available opening, stepped forwards and fired his needler into its remaining eye. It took two more shots before the beast collapsed in a twitching heap. Whether it was dead or not, he couldn’t say. Nor did he care. Jerico was getting away.
‘Enough,’ Baertrum said. ‘We are coming to the end of this farce.’ Impatient, he grabbed hold of Horst’s auto-rig. ‘Go – find Belladonna and take care of her, as we discussed.’ He hauled Big Sledge to his feet. ‘And you – come with me. I’m not letting Jerico get away, even if I have to chase him to hive bottom!’
‘How are we going to do that?’ Big Sledge muttered, as Horst departed.
Baertrum pointed towards the idling ore-truck.
‘Commandeer that.’
Yolanda grinned as her chainsword bit into the mutie’s neck. Gore sprayed across her face and chest as she took his head off. She kicked the twitching body aside and turned, looking at the rest of them.
‘Who’s next?’
There were muties everywhere. Which was good, despite it not exactly being the plan. The mutie fleet had come as a surprise, but Yolanda was adaptable. It didn’t matter to her whether she fought them here, or on the far shore. Muties were muties.
She risked a glance over the rail. There was no organisation to the battle, no orderly lines or ranks. Just a scum-hole punch-up – rickety craft crashed into one another, as Cawdor and muties shot, hacked and slashed at their foes.
The waters of the sump were turning a virulent crimson, and great shapes breached the surface, jaws snapping at the bodies that rolled in the waves. It was as if someone had sounded a dinner-klaxon and every sump-crawler and silt-lurker in this part of the underhive had showed up, looking for a free meal.
She swept her chainblade out, forcing a mutie to scamper back. The rest of them edged away from her. Yolanda licked blood from her lips and spat it out.
‘Don’t be shy, boys. I’m just getting started.’
The hiss of a long-las interrupted her, and she spun to see a mutie stumble, a neat hole burned through his skull. He’d been sneaking up on her. Luckily, she had a guardian angel – Yar Umbra.
The Voidborn had been covering her back since the fight had started. He was crouched somewhere among the smokestacks, doing what he did best. He’d killed at least as many as she had, maybe more. She wondered how he was logging his kills. Maybe he didn’t care about the bounty. It was hard to tell what he cared about, if anything.
She turned back as the rest of the cannibals surged forwards as one. She leapt across the deck to meet them. They weren’t any more effective en masse than they had been individually. The deck of the slime-trawler was soon slippery with blood and viscera. ‘Twenty-eight,’ she said, as she brought her blade down through a mutie’s shoulder. She wheeled, snatching her autopistol from its holster. ‘Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…’ she said, as she shot three more with a wide burst.
A mutie smashed the gun from her hand with a wild blow, and tried to gut her. She caught him by the back of his tattered robes and hurled him over the rail of the trawler. She cursed as she realised what she’d done. Without the scalp, there was no bounty.
She heard a laugh and turned. Grendlsen stumped towards her, reloading his bolt gun.
‘You should be more careful, woman. But don’t worry – there’s plenty more where that came from.’ He clicked the clip home and sprayed the far end of the deck, where several muties were clambering over the rail.
‘Can’t collect a bounty on them without the scalps,’ she said. She cast a quick look across the deck. Some of the crew were still standing, firing over the rail, or from the bulkheads. A few had taken the fight to the muties, and paid the price.
Grendlsen tapped the side of his helmet. ‘Built-in picter – records every kill. More efficient than chopping their heads off.’
‘Well aren’t you fancy,’ Yolanda muttered. She twitched back from the rail as the engine room of a nearby trawler went up, spilling fire across the water. She couldn’t tell who it had belonged to. It didn’t matter anyway. She looked back at Grendlsen. ‘Where’s Goeth – is he still alive?’ The Cawdor ganger had been aboard one of the other boats.
The squat shrugged. ‘Who knows? All longshanks look alike to me.’
Yolanda laughed and retrieved her autopistol. ‘This is going well, don’t you think?’
‘The boat’s sinking.’
‘Is it?’ She could hear the warning klaxon now. Hear the cries of the crew.
‘Yes.’ Grendlsen fired another burst, causing several muties to duck out of sight. He didn’t seem perturbed. Then, nothing bothered the squat. He’d probably encountered worse in his time out among the stars. He and Yar Umbra both.
‘Guess things aren’t going well, then,’ Yolanda said. She scraped at the blood on her face. ‘How long does a distraction like this usually last?’ No plan survived contact with the enemy. Her tutors had taught her that much, before she’d killed them. As appealing as staying here and slugging it out was, there was no profit in it. If she was going to kill muties, better to do it on dry land.
‘Planning on swimming for it?’ Grendlsen stepped back as a mutie climbed over the rail and leapt at him, blade raised. He drove the stock of his boltgun into the cannibal’s stomach, doubling him over. Before his attacker could rise, Grendlsen stamped on his head. Yolanda nodded in admiration – she appreciated brutality.
‘You have a better idea?’
Grendlsen pointed. A small skiff was chugging towards them, its crew of muties hooting and shouting. Maybe ten of them – barely any at all. Their chieftain gesticulated with a heavy blade, and shouted obscenities. A moment later, he was toppling into the water, courtesy of Yar Umbra.
‘We could always find another boat,’ Grendlsen said.
Yolanda smiled.
The shaft-haunter slid through the muggy air of the runoff shaft. Amanute twitched the reins and the beast banked, flapping its wings. Scabbs held tight to her waist. From behind them, he heard the echoes of distant explosions.
‘I don’t think Kal’s plan is working,’ he said.
Amanute laughed. ‘Then it is a good thing we do not have to go much further.’
‘I thought you said it was going to take time to find them,’ Scabbs said, accusingly.
‘I told the uphivers that, yes. If you had asked, I would have told you the truth.’ She glanced at him. ‘Ratskins are always closer than you think.’ She hauled back on the reins and the shaft-haunter descended.
Scabbs closed his eyes and fought back a rising wave of bile.
They landed atop an outcropping of melted stone with a bone-rattling thump. Scabbs half fell from the saddle. Amanute slid to the ground more gracefully. She whistled softly, and the shaft-haunter rose into the air and flapped away.
‘Home.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ Scabbs said, looking around. The tunnel had been cracked wide by some forgotten catastrophe, and the walls were covered in centuries of accumulated filth. Loose sediment, washed down by sump-waters, had been scraped into mountainous heaps that dominated the farthest end of the tunnel. A forest of fungi and broken girders spread across the slopes of these heaps, and spilled down into the tunnel proper.
The ratskins had made their camp amid the forest. Hundreds of lean-tos had been erected in an expanding, concentric pattern that Scabbs was sure had some religious significance. He’d never seen so many of them in one place. Normally, ratskin camps were small things, with only a few dozen families. And renegade war-camps were often even smaller. But this was…
‘The warriors of more than one tribe,’ Amanute said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Someone has called them together, to walk the murder-road.’
‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’ Scabbs said. ‘The pipe-song you heard, just before we reached Perdition…’
She didn’t reply, and he knew he was right.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We came to talk to them, so let’s go talk.’ He took a step towards the camp, but Amanute stopped him.
‘Wait. They will come to us.’ She looked around. ‘Once, all of this was ours.’ Scabbs watched her. She sounded wistful. Sad. But there was something else there, just under the surface – not anger. Almost like… anticipation? He shook his head and wondered again what had possessed him to rescue her in the first place. ‘The Shadow Root ruled these tunnels. Every hatch and conduit was known to us.’
‘Maybe so,’ a voice interjected. ‘But it belongs to the Black Sump now.’
Amanute and Scabbs turned.
‘Tobot,’ she said.
The ratskin crouched on a nearby outcropping, hands resting on his knees. He was short and broad, and was, to Scabbs’ eyes, festooned with weaponry. He grinned fiercely.
‘You remember me, then, daughter of the Shadow Root. I am pleased.’
‘How could I forget the face of the coward who betrayed his own kind?’ Amanute said. ‘How much did you get for us, traitor? How much of a bounty did the Cawdor pay you?’
Scabbs looked back and forth between them. The name had suddenly clicked, and he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.
‘I’m an idiot,’ he muttered. Amanute glanced at him, but didn’t reply.
Tobot’s grin had faded. ‘Insults, Amanute?’
‘You deserve nothing more.’ She made a show of looking around. ‘Where are they, Tobot? I can feel them watching us. Call them up.’
Tobot frowned. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Ratskin warriors appeared as if from nowhere. Some were armed with primitive crossbows or muskets. Others carried salvaged autoguns or shotguns. Scabbs cursed, but didn’t reach for his own weapon.
Tobot sneered at him. ‘What is he then?’ he asked, pointing. ‘A pet?’
Scabbs made to reply, but Amanute waved him to silence. ‘Why are you here, Tobot? Why do you lead warriors on the murder-road?’
‘I go to answer the call of our allies,’ Tobot said. ‘Why are you here, Amanute?’ He grinned. ‘You think – what? – that you would come back and reclaim all of this?’ He gestured about him. ‘It is ours, now. The Shadow Root are dust, and any claim you might have had to these tunnels with them.’
‘So long as I live, our claim holds,’ Amanute said. She shook her head. ‘I know you, Tobot. And I know that you seek your own advantage in this matter. You see only what you can gain from this – not what you will lose.’ She laughed. ‘Then, that has ever been your problem.’ She looked around at the gathered warriors. ‘And not just you.’
Some of them met her gaze. Others looked away. Scabbs suddenly got the feeling that he was only catching half the conversation.
Amanute pointed at Tobot. ‘You are readying our people for war. But it will be I who leads them – and not against the enemies you intended.’ She drew her knife, and cast it into the ground at Tobot’s feet. ‘I have returned from the ghost-lands to challenge you, Tobot of the Black Sump. Do you accept?’
‘I will not fight a woman,’ Tobot said, looking around. There were mutterings at this. Tobot frowned. ‘It is not the Black Sump way,’ he said, more loudly.
‘Then you will fight my champion,’ Amanute said.
Tobot stared at her for a moment. Then his eyes slid to Scabbs. ‘Him?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He will fight in my name.’
‘I’ll do what?’ Scabbs looked back and forth between them.
Tobot laughed harshly. ‘Look at him! Frightened already. Is this truly the champion you’ve chosen, woman?’
Amanute put a hand on Scabbs’ arm. ‘I did not choose him,’ she said, loudly. ‘The spirits did. They sent him to me.’ A murmur ran through the crowd of warriors, and Tobot’s face darkened. He looked around warily, and Scabbs saw his hand drifting towards one of his pistols. Tobot caught him watching and stopped.
‘Fine,’ he spat. ‘Fine, I will fight him.’ He pointed. ‘But we will do it as tradition dictates. No guns. Knives.’
Scabbs swallowed and nodded. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
A few moments later, he found himself stripped to the waist, Amanute’s knife in his hand. She smiled encouragingly at him, as she explained the rules.
‘The challenge is simple. You will be tied together. Only one of you can survive. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, glancing at Tobot. The chieftain had stripped off his shirt as well, and was patting himself down with handfuls of dust. ‘This is why you wanted me to come with you, isn’t it? This is what all of this has been about.’
She paused, and then nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Why me?’
‘I told you – the spirits whispered to me, the first moment I saw you. They marked you, as I was marked when I was young.’ She knelt and scooped up a handful of dust. ‘You might not hear them, but they speak to you.’ She began to paint his face and chest with the dust. ‘You should try listening.’
Scabbs frowned. ‘Maybe later. Right now, I apparently have to kill a guy.’
She’d been using him since the first moment they’d met. He knew that now. She’d known, somehow, that things would turn out this way. She’d needed a champion, and picked him as the first poor sap who’d come along. That was just his luck.
‘You object?’
‘I don’t work for free.’ He flipped the knife up and caught the hilt. ‘You’ll do like you said, right? You’ll take out the muties? Save Kal and the others?’
‘Yes.’
Scabbs nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned as a ratskin began to tie a length of old vox-cable around his wrist. The other end of the cable was lashed to Tobot’s wrist in a similar fashion, leaving about ten feet between them. Scabbs gave it an experimental tug, and Tobot replied in kind. A ratskin barked something, and the crowd of warriors circled them, stamping and whistling. Scabbs gripped Amanute’s knife more tightly.
‘Are you ready, uphiver?’ Tobot growled, circling him.
‘Would it matter if I said no?’
Tobot laughed – and lunged. He was quick. Scabbs leapt back, trying to remember the dirty tricks he’d learned as a snatchling in the tunnels. Their knives met in a quick flurry, before they broke apart. Tobot fought with a savage skill, but like all ratskins, he was wild. He left himself open, thinking his viciousness would carry the day.
Scabbs avoided the sweep of the blade and kicked Tobot in the knee, staggering him. The ratskin cursed and slashed at him again. Scabbs jerked back and then lunged, driving his shoulder into Tobot’s chest. Tobot gasped and stepped back. Scabbs dropped low and scooped up a handful of soil. As Tobot came at him again, Scabbs flung the dirt full in his face. Tobot cursed and clawed at his eyes. Scabbs punched him low, dragging a shrill yelp from the ratskin’s lips.
Tobot cursed and stabbed at him. The blade gashed Scabbs’ arm, forcing him to retreat as far as the binding would allow.
‘Coward,’ the ratskin coughed. ‘You will not escape. The spirits of the deep pipes will guzzle your blood, and the children will make chimes of your bones.’
‘I’ll pass on that, thanks,’ Scabbs said, eyeing the cable that tied him to his opponent. With a single, swift slash, he hacked through the cable binding them together.
