Kriz gave a brief, humourless laugh, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “No . . . need guns . . . here,” she said, placing her palm on the plinth’s crystal and stepping back. There came the now-familiar grind of stone and blossom of dust as a segment of the boulder’s surface receded then slid aside. This time there was no rush of air, meaning whatever waited within didn’t require a vacuum. The interior was completely dark which seemed to heighten Kriz’s agitation. She motioned for Loriabeth and Sigoral to light their lanterns, peering impatiently into the gloom until they did so.
The lights revealed a narrow tunnel and a series of stone steps descending deep underground. Clay turned to Kriz, seeing that her trepidation had deepened, but there was also a steely resolve in her gaze. She said something in her own language, a brief muttered phrase that Clay fancied might have been a prayer of some kind, then took Loriabeth’s lantern and started down into the dark.
CHAPTER 35
Lizanne
The assembled mass of convicts rushed through the gate with a roar of primal triumph, a roar that quickly faded as they were greeted by the thick smoke and thunderous chaos of battle. However, the combined weight of numbers and desperation ensured their charge continued, the close-packed throng streaming through the gate and spreading out to cover the cobbled parade-ground in front of the gate. A thin line of constables and Imperial soldiers had been hastily assembled to oppose them, but their volley was a ragged and pitiful thing against such an onslaught. The constables broke and ran after their first shot, the soldiers managing one more volley before they were swallowed up by the mob. Lizanne closed her ears against the brief but piercing shrieks as the soldiers fell victim to the fury of the escapees, keeping her gaze fixed on the Electress who, in turn, had her meaty hand fixed on Tinkerer’s arm. She moved with a tight-packed body-guard of Furies led by Anatol. The giant had loosed all the bolts from his cross-bow and now used it as a club, Lizanne seeing him bring the stock down to shatter the skull of a fallen sergeant before moving on with a steady and purposeful stride.
Opposition stiffened as they pressed on, rifle-bullets twitching the smoke with increasing frequency, soon joined by a cannon-shot that sent swarms of canister into the ranks of the inmates. The mob’s speed had lessened now, people moving in a scuttling crouch as if caught in a heavy downpour. It was clear to Lizanne that someone of sufficient rank and composure had managed to organise an effective defence. She drank a small amount of Green and leapt, rising high enough to see above the smoke. Her enhanced vision revealed a full regiment of Imperial Cavalry, most dismounted and scurrying into a defensive formation. One battery of cannon had been set up in the centre of their line with another in the process of unlimbering on the right flank. Lizanne managed a quick headcount before gravity asserted its grip, and she found that the regiment was smaller than it should be by at least a squadron. Her second leap revealed the reason. Beyond the line of dismounts a thick swirl of dust rose as mounted troopers battled an unseen foe in a close-quarter contest of sabre and pistol. The Brotherhood, she realised. It appears they arrived on time after all.
Lizanne landed and rushed to where the Electress and the surviving Furies were crouched behind a row of upturned carts. The mob’s advance had halted now as the troopers’ massed carbine fire took an ever-increasing toll. Escapees clustered in knots or fled in panic, seeking refuge on the flanks which only exposed them to more accurate fire as they fled the concealing shroud of smoke. Lizanne saw one of the Furies clutching a rifle and tore it from his grasp, delivering a discouraging Green-enhanced slap when he bristled in protest. She checked to ensure Tinkerer was still unharmed, albeit remaining in the Electress’s grip, then moved to Anatol’s side. “Lift me,” she told him, taking another gulp of Green and checking to ensure the rifle had a bullet in the chamber. Anatol just stared at her in naked animosity until the Electress spoke up, “Just do it. Can’t lie here all day, now, can we?”
Anatol gave a snarl then grabbed Lizanne by the waist, raising her up above his head as if she weighed little more than a feather pillow. Lizanne allowed the Green to flood her system, her entire body seeming to thrum with the sudden injection of boosted strength and reflex. Time slowed as she brought the rifle to her shoulder, her pulse a faint, ponderous drum-beat as the drifting smoke stilled and the whine of passing bullets became a lazy drone. She trained the rifle on the regimental line, eagle-sharp eyes scanning for her victim. Where are you, Colonel?
She found him in the centre of the line, where a good commander should be. The colonel was mounted on a sturdy black charger and appeared the epitome of a Corvantine officer with his stern grey-moustached features and chest beribboned with an impressive array of battle honours. Lizanne thought he might almost have stepped out of a painting from the way he sat tall in the saddle, sabre resting on his shoulder as he boomed out encouragement to his men. A man that other men would follow anywhere, or despair at his passing.
Her bullet took him in the chest, ripping through his medal ribbons to find his heart. Impressive to the end he managed to stay in the saddle for a short while, gripping the pommel and continuing to shout his orders even as blood rushed from his mouth. Then, inevitably, he slipped slowly from his perch and lay still as his charger nibbled at his slack face.
Lizanne drew back the rifle’s bolt to eject the spent cartridge and held out a hand to the Furies crouched below. “Ammunition please.”
She killed the gunners next, picking off all but one of the battery in the centre. The final gunner took to his heels the moment his sergeant slumped dead beside him, leaving the twelve-pounder silent. On either side of the gun she could see cavalry troopers exchanging fearful glances, though they continued to maintain a steady fire at the prone and immobile mass of escapees. Their collective nerve only began to truly falter when Lizanne started to pick off the sergeants, obvious panic rising with every slain veteran. Open discord broke out on the left flank when she put a round into the head of a barrel-chested colour-sergeant bearing the company pennant. A squadron of troopers rose from their firing positions to begin an unbidden retreat, heedless of a vicious haranguing from a young officer. The panic soon spread to the neighbouring squadron, their line fracturing into confused knots as they saw their comrades succumb to fear. Within seconds the whole left side of the regiment’s line was in disarray.