Lizanne paused to retrieve the revolver’s holster and ammunition from the body of its owner before drinking a large dose of Green. After clambering down into the now-densely-packed throng below she was obliged to force her way through to the gate, shoving numerous inmates aside and being none-too-gentle about it. Her way became easier when constables appeared in the exposed walkways above and began to assail the crowd with rifle fire. Screams of pain and outrage rose as a dozen or more inmates fell to the first volley. In response many streamed into the corridors and doorways laid open by the Tinkerer’s bomb, an animalistic cacophony echoing through the hallways as they hunted down the riflemen and exacted bestial revenge. Several uniformed bodies landed in Lizanne’s path as she continued her journey to the gate.
She paused for a second at the sight of one constable’s body, lying in a twisted tangle atop another corpse clad in unusually dapper clothing. She hauled the constable’s body aside, revealing Chuckling Sim’s bleached and frozen features. A bullet had removed much of his upper skull but somehow his lips had contrived to retain some vestige of a grin even in death. The resultant flare of guilt was a surprise; the man had been scum after all. Like Melina, and the Learned Damned and every other wretch deservedly consigned to this place. But still the guilt lingered as she pressed on. Scum or not, they would have lived if she hadn’t come here.
A dense knot of inmates assailed the gate, the tree-sized cross-bar and huge iron hinges groaning under the pressure, but as yet showing no signs of giving. She found the Electress alongside Anatol and Varkash at the fore of the throng and was gratified to see Tinkerer had followed her orders and stayed at the Electress’s side. His face remained as blank as ever, though there was a brightness to his eyes that told of unabated terror.
“Heave you fuckers!” Atalina yelled, pressing her own bulk against the door, the others all following suit. The huge barrier bowed under the weight of so many bodies, but once again failed to break.
“Move back!” Lizanne shouted, shouldering her way through the crowd. “I need room.”
“Hoped you were dead by now,” the Electress said, stepping back from the gate. Lizanne noted she had one hand firmly clamped onto Tinkerer’s arm. A prize not to be given up lightly. She also noted that Anatol still had his cross-bow. “She played her part,” he said, moving to the side and unslinging the cross-bow, blocky features hard with grief and a deep desire for retribution.
Seeing little point in discussion, Lizanne used Black to force the weapon up so that the bolt jabbed into the underside of Anatol’s chin. His slab-like features twitched as he glowered at her, a thin trickle of blood staining the steel tip of the cross-bow bolt. “I’m sorry about Melina,” Lizanne told him, hoping he could hear the sincerity in her voice. “But we have no time for this.”
From outside came a tumult of gun-shots and raised voices, indicating that the Brotherhood had finally arrived to launch their assault. Judging by the intensity of the cacophony, it appeared they were facing much stiffer resistance than expected.
We’re running out of time, she thought, releasing Anatol and retreating a few steps. Too big to shatter or burn, she decided, raising her gaze to the giant cross-bar above then reaching once more for Julesin’s vials. She drank all but a small drop of the remaining Black, gritting her teeth against the queasy growl it birthed in her gut, then focused her gaze on the cross-bar. The first controlled release of power raised the bar barely a foot before it slammed back into place. Lizanne focused on one end of the bar and unleashed all the Black at once, the huge slab of timber tilting to the left then slowly sliding through the massive iron brackets before falling away, inmates scurrying clear as it tumbled to earth, scattering dust and rubble.
For a moment no one moved, all staring at Lizanne or the unbarred gate as if unable to comprehend the simple and obvious fact of their liberation.
Lizanne drew her revolver and strode forward, pressing her shoulder to the gate. “Best if you tell your people to gather all the rifles they can,” she told the Electress. “There’ll be more fighting to do outside.”
CHAPTER 33
Sirus
“Dinish-kahr,” Sirus repeated the name aloud, enjoying the novelty of hearing his own voice after such a long period of silence. “And the literal meaning?”
The Spoiled warrior regarded him with a flat gaze, not exactly hostile, but hardly welcoming either. Even within this army of joined minds differences persisted, social and cultural loyalties lingering among the transformed, and none more so than the tribal contingent. Sirus could share their memories at will, as they could share his, save for those he had learned to hide deep within himself. Despite this connection the indigenous Arradsians remained largely an enigma. Without context or a more fundamental understanding of their language and customs, the memories he took from them were often little more than a mish-mash of image and sensation containing no clue as to their significance.
“I know you understand me,” Sirus reminded the warrior when he failed to respond verbally, instead conveying another enigmatic image from his memory, dark, capering figures silhouetted against a roaring fire. “Speak.” Sirus underlined the command with a mental reminder of his authority. It was only a brief image of the White in flight but it tended to have a dramatic effect on the tribals.
The warrior spoke Varsal in slow deliberate tones, as if worried he might mispronounce the words, even though they were near perfect, albeit coloured by a lower-class Morsvale accent.
“Flame-dancer.”
“This is your name?”
The warrior’s thoughts betrayed fearful confusion, indicating the question was beyond his understanding. “Sirus is my name.” Sirus patted his chest then pointed to the tribal. “Your name is Dinish-kahr? You are Flame-dancer?”
“Dinish-kahr.” A glimmer of understanding rose in the warrior’s mind as he mimicked Sirus’s gesture then pointed at a group of fellow tribals standing near by. They all wore similar clothing, garishly decorated armour of hardened leather Sirus knew to be typical of the plains tribes, another example of cultural distinctiveness that continued to resist the unifying effects of their transformation. “Dinish-kahr,” the warrior repeated as he pointed. “They are Flame-dancer.” He stopped pointing then patted his chest again. “I am Flame-dancer.”
Sirus glanced at the other tribals who all stood with heads tilted as they viewed the conversation, spined brows creasing in puzzlement. “You are all Flame-dancer,” he realised. “You do not have individual names.”
He sensed a new understanding take hold in the warrior’s mind at that moment, the fellow issuing a grunt and stepping back, his slitted eyes narrowing. You didn’t know there was such a thing as an individual name? Sirus enquired, slipping into non-verbal communication. Did you?
The warrior grunted again, his hand tightening on his war-club. His fellow tribals stirred in concert, hostility flaring in their minds.
The gift of knowledge is not always welcome, boy.