Some curse the Deadsingers in voices that aren’t their own, flailing weakly like beached fish. For those, Steelfinder and Shipwright do what needs done.
It takes Quickfish a while to notice Roof stroking his hair. He buries his face against his chest and weeps.
‘Easy, Fish,’ Roofkeeper murmurs, kissing the top of his head. ‘We’re not out the woods yet.’
As he pulls Quickfish closer, Steelfinder approaches them slowly, limping. She offers up a weak smile. ‘I don’t think they’ll hold off for too long. Just waiting for more of their own.’ Her voice hitches. ‘And if this is what I think it is, there’s going to be a lot more. Skinpainter wasn’t kidding,’ she murmurs, half to herself, before focusing back on Quickfish. She squats down to his level, arms loose on her knees. ‘I’m not leaving here without Ice, but this isn’t your fight.’ She gestures to the back wall as she talks, the dark mass of frightened people. ‘There’s passages there that’ll take you out. The Singers know the way. You could get to freedom, take some people with you.’
Quickfish flicks his eyes to the crevice and back. ‘And what about the rest of you?’
Steelfinder smiles. A thin grey line. ‘If we don’t follow you within the hour, seal us in. This thing travels.’ She shakes her head ruefully, ‘I’ve got a friend who lives on the north road. If you see him, tell him Steel hopes he enjoyed the tea. Be nice to his dog.’
Roofkeeper pats her arm. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry.’
He motions to Quickfish, who looks from one expectant face to the other, then at that thin, wavering line of warriors.
His stomach lurches. ‘No.’
Roofkeeper opens his mouth to interject and Quickfish hurries on.
‘No. We all leave. Together.’ He holds Steel’s gaze. ‘I don’t think you’d leave me, if the tables were turned. And I won’t leave you.’
Roofkeeper’s hand tightens briefly on Quickfish’s shoulder, then he laughs. ‘Ugh. You’re your father’s son.’
Quickfish smiles up at him. ‘Brave and committed?’
Roofkeeper kisses his cheek. ‘Arsey and pig-headed.’
The Deadsingers’ song saws up to a fever pitch and Shipwright’s voice cuts in from the front lines. ‘Steel, they’re coming.’
Steelfinder frowns.
Quickfish grabs her wrist. ‘Tell me what you need us to do.’
Steelfinder looks to Shipwright, the Deadsingers, then back to Quickfish. He realises how young she is. Not much older than him, really.
‘We can’t stay here,’ she says, finally, shooting a glance at the Deadsingers. ‘Can you hold this rock until we return?’
They look at each other, nod. ‘For a time.’
Steelfinder straightens her shoulders. Breathes out. ‘OK, OK. Then we make our way downwards to the sleeping halls.’ She points her spear at the things skulking beyond the shield-wall. ‘Before they do.’
As if on cue, the darkness screams, yammers, curses.
Quickfish shudders. ‘Why the sleeping halls?’
Her voice is tight with tension. ‘Because that’s where we sent the children.’
Quickfish loses track of time after that, as the mountain spits out friends turned to killers. Steelfinder and a small cadre of sane soldiers leading them down into the depths of the Stump. Shipwright is by her side, of course, and Roofkeeper too, which means Quickfish follows after, even if he’s a hairsbreadth from shitting himself with terror. Whatever Crowkisser has unleashed is tearing through the mountain with ferocious speed; something that slides in through broken skin, spilt blood. The soldiers either side of him more wild-eyed with each step. He can’t catch muchof their hushed speech, but over and over, one word surfaces like a black fish: ‘Emperor.’ Always said with a wary glance, a flickering hand over the heart. Quickfish has no idea what Crowkisser’s done, but the people around him around are terrified, and it seeps into his bones with every passing second. His feet move faster, fleet with panic, following the others, until they’re all hurling through the corridors on a wave of fear. Down and down and down, through the Stump’s twisting halls, his exhausted heart hammering like a struck drum, sweat on his lips. The others aren’t doing much better, the pace is killing them. They’re a half-step ahead of the dead, at first, but losing ground with every slip and stumble. The things behind them are faster, loping forwards, shifting with feral speed. They lose people one by one, dragged screaming backwards by unseen hands.
A few of Steelfinder’s small crew plant themselves shoulder to spine. Buying bare moments to keep them ahead. A few brave, terrified faces set against the broken-nailed dark. Quickfish sees those same brave faces lurching after them minutes later, mouths slick with tearing, their catcalls doubled and strung with weeping, their mouths stuffed with each other’s meat.
He screams, over and over, until his voice is a husk. The only thing that keeps him moving is Roofkeeper’s iron grip around his waist, and beyond that the imagined voice of his father somewhere in the darkness ahead, calling out to him. Fallon’s big moon face as incongruous in his mind’s eye as anything he could imagine, drifting away as his palm itches like an ant nest around the ghost of golden bitemarks. He retches and spits. Thick, sweet gobbets of honey and spice on his tongue. Somehow, he keeps moving.
He survives because he’s kept safe. Steelfinder and Shipwright at the head and heel of their charge, his own tired feet in the middle, and always at his side, Roofkeeper’s steady gait. Somehow, he sucks in the burning, blood-thick air and keeps running.
It’s all worth it for a second, when they finally reach the sleeping halls, Steelfinder’s cadre barrelling through guarded archways to meet a small clot of fearful children and their caretakers. Quickfish recognises Nigh, stepping tousle-headed to the front,her small arms striking martial poses. She holds them for around half a second before she’s swept up in Steelfinder’s arms, peppered with kisses. Quickfish sidles up to the laughing pair, ruffles Nigh’s hair, dodges a batting hand. ‘Hello, hair twin.’
Nigh gives him a grave nod in response. Turns to try and lick Steelfinder’s neck.
