Shroudweaver feels the dead then, in the buildings, alongside the barest flicker of breath. There must be some living soldiers in there too.
He gestures to two houses on the left. ‘Troops, waiting.’
Shipwright’s voice is low in the drifting ash. ‘OK. Follow me.’
They snake to the wall side of the first building. She turns to Brimlicker. ‘When this comes down, go in hard.’
The pirate looks puzzled. ‘What do you—?’
Shipwright’s hands fly out, a spinner in each. The wall in front cracks, whines, and vaporises. She dives in.
To their credit, Brimlicker and her crew follow hot on her heels.
The contingent of soldiers inside is watching the entrances. They turn, but not fast enough.
Shipwright catches a dead man’s skull between her fists, the bones vibrating to shards as she brings her hands together. A dagger leaves Brimlicker’s hand as she crouches low to take one soldier in the throat, before she ducks beneath the spray to stab another under the ribs. As the rest of her crew engages, Shroudweaver hangs back, trying to pick up some shiver of the Empire’s army.
A dead thing swings for his face, another one of those beautiful maces a hairsbreadth from his nose. Absently, he flicks out with the red threads. Pulls its soul from it and binds it to the fingers of his right hand.
The empty flesh totters, wobbles and falls.
As Shroudweaver steps back, arms wrap around him from behind, leathery and thick. He struggles, ducks forwards to shuckthem off, but the grip is strong, fingers working their way to his windpipe. Heart hammering. Panic rising in his chest.
The body holding him rocks once, and goes slack.
He turns to watch it slide to the floor, one of Brimlicker’s daggers stuck in its skull.
‘Don’t get relaxed, Shroudweaver,’ she smiles, pulling it free with a twisting crunch. ‘Relaxed will kill you.’
He nods. ‘Thanks.’
She’s already gone, helping finish off the last few stragglers. A good first move, all in all, no one down. A couple of nasty wounds, but light and messy rather than fatal. Brimlicker pats one of the injured men on the shoulder and grins. ‘Maybe get some good scars out of that. You might finally get laid.’
Shipwright strolls across to Shroudweaver and sits down on a chunk of broken masonry. She dusts her hands and begins rebinding their straps. ‘Well, we’ve made it this far.’
He smiles. ‘You’re very casual about this.’
She shrugs, ‘I’ll panic later. I like to bottle things up. Saves time.’
He rests a hand briefly on her shoulder, and she leans her head against his wrist. The touch shocks him, but he fights the reflex to pull back.
‘There should be more of them. That was a … lot of dead people.’
She nods. ‘Well, they’re either in here somewhere, or they’ve left the city.’
He chews his lip nervously. ‘Doesn’t seem like their style.’
She frowns, ‘Do we even know what their style is?’
He toes the ancient body at his feet. Remembers the feel of its fingers on his bruised throat. ‘No.’
‘I suppose it’s clear enough to signal some backup.’ She calls out to Brimlicker. ‘Captain, can you do the honours?’
The flare that arcs out over the square is red, actinic.
Shroudweaver watches it flame, letting the purple spots kiss the back of eyelids as he closes them for a moment. ‘I suppose they’ll come now.’
Brimlicker nods. ‘We’ll keep watch.’
