Page 117 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

—I launch myself forward, before I can think about the consequences.

The Butcher swings her sword, and it forces me to the side. Her off hand comes up at the same moment, a short jab sparkling with golden Rhema light. I accept the blow, the long tooth punching into my chest under my breast, its edge grating against a rib. I grab the Butcher’s wrist to hold myself in place and swing the spike, aiming for the join between two armor plates on her side. Melos energy screeches against crab shell as I drive it in, punching deep.

“Ow,” the Butcher says, sounding more annoyed than angry. “You—”

I release the energy built up in my fist, and she screams.

Her skin is lit from within for a moment by a flickering green light, bleeding forth through the gaps in her armor. Her wide-open mouth throws an emerald beam, and two more burst out of her eyes. Her muscles lock rigid for a second, keeping her upright, and I stagger back and away. Then, with a clatter of plate, she collapses to the deck.

The crowd has gone silent. I step forward again, carefully. Under her helmet, the Butcher’s exposed skin has blackened and cracked. Wisps of smoke rise from the gaps in her armor, and the air stinks of burnt meat.

I blink and look up at the crowd.

Now what?

There was something I was supposed to do, something I was supposed to say to all these people. Meroe had coached me, but all the words have fled my mind, draining away with the blood flowing freely from the two holes in my torso. I try to fill my lungs, but all that does is make me cough, and the pain from that drives me to my knees.

Someone is running across the floor of the Ring. I look up to see Meroe kneeling beside me, halfway to tears already.

I try to apologize, to tell her that the plan isn’t going to work, but all of a sudden I can’t hear anything because everyone is screaming.

Something big is moving through the crowd. At first I think there’s a fight going on and people are trying to get away from it. Then the crab rises on blue, spindly limbs, towering above the assembled crew. A blueshell. All around the ring, knots of panic and rising screams indicate it isn’t the only intruder.

After a stunned moment, the air suddenly fills with the flash and bang of flying magic. Bolts of Myrkai fire erupt, washing over the blueshell, blooming in balls of flame on its carapace or missing entirely to burst among the crowd. More screams, the shouting of pack leaders trying to organize a defense, the panicked rush of people determined to get out of the way.

The blueshell stalks forward, clawed arms rising and falling, already tinged with blood. The mass of sword-tipped tentacles at its mouth stretches out, slashing and skewering, lifting bits of torn flesh to be consumed. I see a boy rolling on the ground, clutching at the stump of his arm, moments before the tentacles descend and silence him for good. One big claw grabs a younger girl, lifting her screaming into the air. She lashes out desperately with her Xenos Well, twisting waves of shadow battering the monster, but its grip tightens inexorably. She shudders and goes limp, spine bent at an unnatural angle, and her sorcery fades away as the crab feeds her into its whirling razor-sharp tendrils.

I look up at Meroe, who is staring around with wide eyes. “Help—” I cough, which sends me into a whimpering ball of pain. Teeth clenched so hard they’re about to crack, I force myself to grab her hand. “Help me up.”

“Isoka?” Meroe looks down at me. “Gods, stay still! You’re bleeding—”

“Help.” I swallow. “We have to help.”

She shakes her head, and reaches down to put my arm over her shoulder. “We have to get you out of here.”

I’m too tired to argue. Too tired, in fact, to get very far. We manage to stumble a few steps past the Butcher’s steaming corpse, and then my legs give out, and I slump back to the deck. The blood that patters to the metal is a deep, rich red. I stare at it, fascinated, as the puddle starts to spread.

“Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is a shriek, but it rings hollowly in my ear. “Get up. You have to get up.” I feel her arms around me, trying to lift me, but she’s not strong enough. It hurts, when she tries to move me. I want to tell her to stop, to just let me rest awhile, but I can’t force the words out.

The blueshell enters the Ring, moving with quiet, eerie grace. Most of the crowd is gone, now, leaving a few hastily organized defenders. They surround the thing with swords and spears, splashes of Myrkai fire and Rhema speed. Blood leaks from it in a few places, but as I watch it lunges forward, claws clacking. A big iceling man is picked up and hurled through the air like a rag doll, crashing to the deck a hundred yards away. An Imperial woman with a long spear stands her ground, stabbing at the crab’s mouth, but its tendrils wrap around the weapon and yank her closer. One long blade-tentacle slashes her open from crotch to breastbone, spilling her guts in a gory mass. The crab steps gently over her still-twitching body, coming in our direction.

“Meroe.” My voice is a croak. “Run.”

“No.” She bends closer, to whisper in my ear. “Hold on, Isoka. I’m going to heal you.”

I remember Berun, screaming. I feel Meroe’s hands grow warm on my arm, the energy coiled inside her, ready to burst forth. I can feel her hesitate, trying to force the power out and hold it back, pushing and pulling on the door at the same time.

It won’t work. She can see that as well as I can, and no words are necessary. She leans forward, wrapping herself around me, putting her body between me and the crab.

“It’s all right.” I’m not sure if I mean it. I’m not sure if she can hear me.

There’s a flash of green.

Zarun stands only a few feet away. His elaborate, immaculate outfit is splashed with blood in several colors, and his hair is sopping with the stuff. But none of it seems to be his, and he’s ringed in a crackling, writhing aura of Melos power. The crab swings its claw down, a strike with the weight of a falling boulder behind it. Zarun meets it head on, throwing up his arm, a circular shield of Melos energy flickering into being and holding the crab at bay with spitting arcs of lightning. Irritated, the blueshell brings its other claw up, and Zarun throws out his other hand. Bands of pale blue Tartak force wrap around the huge limb, holding it in place.

“Any minute now, you muscle-bound idiot!” Zarun shouts, above the snap-hiss of magic and the shouting all around.

Karakoa comes up behind him, at a run. He’s at the center of a storm of Melos power, too, his hands held together to grip a long, curved energy blade, like a two-handed sword but impossibly thin. He skids to a halt under the blueshell’s claw, weapon humming. After a moment’s pause, the crab rears back, but its claw stays in place, severed at the joint. Zarun lets it drop, spinning wildly on the deck and spewing dark blood. Karakoa pivots, lunges, and slashes the long blade through the blueshell’s second claw, which falls away as easily as an autumn leaf. Zarun lets his shield disappear, and his arms sprout blades like mine. Together, the two of them move in.