The two sides came together with final sputter of rifle fire, soon swallowed by the chorus of growls and shouts that told of people engaged in savage close-quarter combat. Whilst a good number of Ravens and Watchmen had fled, there were enough stalwart regulars remaining to put up a stiff fight, but not enough to close the gaping rent in their formation.
As she expected, Arberus was first through the breach, his stallion at full gallop and sabre raised high. His hundred or so mounted troops were close behind, wheeling left and right to assail the Corvantines from the rear. In most engagements of this size an attack by so small a contingent of cavalry would have had little effect, but with the Corvantines stripped of their artillery and beset by determined if inexpert infantry, the charge quickly proved decisive. Soon the Imperial troops had fragmented into a dozen close-packed pockets of resistance, battling desperately against the seemingly unending rebel tide still streaming out of the darkness. The toll on the attackers was high, the Corvantine troops were veterans after all and Lizanne reckoned each accounted for at least three rebels before they fell.
She turned as Hyran stirred at her side, seeing his gaze fixed on a particularly stubborn knot of Watchmen who had gathered into a defensive circle a hundred yards away. The ground surrounding the Watchmen was continually littered with rebel bodies as they fired disciplined volleys into the ranks of the onrushing horde.
“Don’t!” she warned, reaching out to grasp Hyran’s sleeve as he began to crawl from beneath the wagon. “We did our part.”
He shot her a look that was part disgust and part disappointment. “These are my people,” he said, tugging himself free. Lizanne watched him sprint towards the encircled Watchmen, revolver raised and fingers pressing the buttons of his Spider.
Now would appear to be the time, she concluded, taking in the unfolding carnage beyond her hiding-place. Freed of encumbrances, she could make her way to where Tinkerer tended his infernal devices. Anatol would most likely be guarding him, but the battle would provide ample cover for a well-placed shot. She began to shuffle free of the wagon then paused as a figure caught her eye, a slender figure running through the smoke with a rifle in hand. Makario’s eyes were wide and he yelled as he ran, more she assumed in panic than martial enthusiasm. Even so, he pelted towards the still-battling knot of Corvantines with an unfaltering stride, a cluster of rebels at his back.
“Sentiment,” Lizanne muttered, checking her revolver and filling her veins with product, “will surely be the death of me.”
CHAPTER 40
Clay
The Red swept around the flank of the mountain, wings angled to catch the air-current. It was full-grown but sickly like the Greens and the White, but still moving too fast for Clay to shift Kriz clear of its talons. She spun as a claw tore into her side, arching her back and casting out a spiral of blood. Kriz issued a brief, convulsive scream as Clay set her down before turning his gaze to the Red.
The beast fanned its wings and whirled about, tail whipping as it angled its body for a second attack. Clay reached out with the Black to clamp the animal’s head in place. Its body coiled and thrashed as he raised the carbine, centring the glowing circle of the optic on its forehead. His doubts about the power of the weapon’s ammunition proved unfounded as a single bullet between the eyes was enough to render the animal lifeless. He used the last of the Black to throw the sagging corpse against the side of the mountain. It impacted with bone-cracking force and slid to the ground a few yards away, blood streaming in thick rivulets from its pierced skull.
“Clay!” Loriabeth was at Kriz’s side, pressing a bandage to a bleeding gash in the woman’s side. “She needs Green.”
Clay crouched next to Kriz’s head, taking a vial from his wallet and holding it to her lips. She gazed up at him, eyes dull as he tipped the contents down her throat. They brightened as the product did its work, banishing a good deal of her pain and adding much-needed vitality to her body, but it couldn’t do anything to stem the blood streaming from her wound.
“Gotta stitch this up,” Loriabeth said, blood seeping through her fingers from the already soaked bandage. “She’ll bleed to death in moments otherwise.”
Clay’s gaze snapped to the Red’s corpse. He rushed towards it, taking an empty vial and scooping up a portion of the blood leaking from the animal’s skull. His first try at drinking it left him retching with such force he abandoned the attempt. Raw Red, it transpired, was even fouler than raw Black. Cursing, he took his canteen and added a few drops of water to the vial, shaking it to dilute the contents. He steeled himself against the reaction and forced the whole lot down in one swallow, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop his body immediately rejecting the noxious brew.
“Clay!” Loriabeth said.
He staggered as the Red seemed to explode in his gut and would have fallen if Sigoral hadn’t caught him about the waist. “I’m alright,” he said, shrugging free and stumbling back to Kriz. Loriabeth moved aside as he slumped to his knees, pulling away the bandages she had applied to the wound. The sight of the deep, oozing rent in Kriz’s flesh nearly had him retching again but he managed to contain his gorge long enough to summon the product.
“Hold her tight,” he told Sigoral and Loriabeth. “This’ll hurt.”
He placed his hands at one end of the wound, pressing the lips of the cut together then unleashing a thin stream of Red. Kriz shuddered and let out a lacerating scream as her skin blistered under the intense heat, releasing a sickening stench that forced Loriabeth to turn away and heave up the contents of her stomach. Clay continued to work, tracking his gaze slowly along the length of the wound and leaving a hideous track of puckered, smoking flesh in its wake. But it was flesh that no longer bled. By the time he was done Kriz’s screams had faded into a faint whimpering and her body lay slack, her breathing shallow and skin cold.
“Mr. Torcreek,” Sigoral said with quiet urgency. Clay glanced up to see him aiming his carbine at the quickly darkening sky. Just visible in the gloom were three winged silhouettes, growing closer by the second.
“Go . . .” Kriz said in a barely audible whisper. Clay looked down to see her bright eyes meeting his as she smiled. “Leave . . . me.”
“Fuck that.” Clay took out another vial of Green and drank it all before gathering Kriz into his arms and rising to his feet. “Stay close,” he told Loriabeth and Sigoral, turning and starting up the slope towards the building at a dead run. “Keep them off us.”