Page 36 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

Meroe is kneeling beside Berun. The Moron, as usual, is nowhere to be seen now that the action has started.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

Before Meroe can answer, though, Ahdron points. “The rest of the pack is coming!” he says.

I hear more rattle-clicks. A lot more, like a barrel full of knitting needles rolling down a hill.

At this point, we’re deep into the Center. Haia gave us a map, a crude, sketchy thing on a bit of torn cloth, and slammed the door behind us.

Wherever they found the hammerhead, it’s much farther away than the Silvercap Garden, and much farther down. We descend several spiral staircases, walking along bridge after bridge until I’m thoroughly lost. The whole Center seems to be a mess of bridges, pillars, and stairs, some sturdy-looking with solid railings, others rickety and rusted, or infested by fungus. Far below us, strange colored lights shift in the dark, moving slowly into new constellations. Now and then, I catch a whiff of something that smells like the sea over the tang of rusty metal.

A few small crabs, about the size of dogs, scurry away from our approach. The people of Soliton use “crab” to mean any of the monsters of the Center, but these look like the crabs I’m familiar with. Berun says they’re called scuttlers and they don’t attack humans unless they seem weak. I guess we look strong enough, because the scuttlers leave us alone, and we don’t run into any serious problems until we reach a wide bridge four levels down and the rattle-clicking begins.

Rattlers, apparently, hunt in packs. I rotting well wish people would take the time to explain things.

Apparently they hunt in big packs, too. At least two dozen of the red creatures roll out of the darkness, already moving fast, feet kicking out every few yards to push them ever faster. If I wait for them to come to us, they’ll knock me down and Meroe and the others will be easy prey. So I run toward them, angling diagonally across the bridge, slamming my boots hard against the metal deck to make it ring like a gong. Crabs are supposed to be attracted to sound, and the rattlers are no exception. They start to turn in my direction, the whole pack slewing around to come after me. The closest one jumps, and I slash it in two. Another Myrkai bolt sends a rattler careening off the bridge wreathed in flame.

Then the rest of them have made the turn, and they’re jumping at me, too. I duck and roll out of the way as a half dozen fly through the space where I was standing, bouncing off the deck and spinning to come back at me. I cut another down as it gets too close, and feel a pulse of heat as one of them caroms off the backs of my legs. Three more jump, and I intercept one and duck another. The third catches me on the shoulder, hard enough that I stumble backward and land on my ass.

“Ahdron!” I shout. “Now!”

He says something in response, but I’m not listening. I curl up, putting my head down, and let my blades fade away as I put all the energy I can muster into my armor. It thickens, power crackling over me as the rattlers slam against me again and again. Their spines scrape against the solidified magic with a sound like blades on glass, green lightning arcing all around me.

All at once, everything goes white, and my armor flares hot enough that I want to scream. There’s a rush of sound, like the whoomph of igniting oil, and then sudden quiet. A single rattle-click rapidly fades into the distance.

I open my eyes and push myself to my feet.

I’m standing in the middle of a huge patch of blackened deck. All around me are the rattlers, cooked to a crisp by the enormous fireball I was just at the center of. Ahdron is standing some distance off, arms folded, looking smug.

I take a step toward him, stumble a little, and concentrate on breathing for a moment. Stray sparks of green light still shimmer over my clothes, earthing themselves on the deck and the dead rattlers.

I don’t know if the things are good to eat, but they smell delicious.

“If you could do that,” Meroe says, “why didn’t you just do it in the first place?”

“For starters, it wears me out,” Ahdron says, grinning. “And it’s not very accurate. I needed them all together and well away from us, unless you fancy getting cooked, too.”

Meroe takes my arm, carefully, and puts it across her shoulders.

“Here, lean on me,” she says. We start walking back toward the others. “Are you all right?”

“Medium-rare, at worst,” I tell her, sucking in a breath. In truth, my limbs feel a little wobbly from the rush of power, but it’s passing. Momentary impacts and flames are easier on my armor than the sustained pressure the blueshell put me through. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. I think something got stuck in Berun’s hand, though.”

“That’ll be the needles,” Ahdron says. “The tips are barbed, and they break off. Let me see.”

Berun whimpers and opens his hand. There are three long spines embedded in his palm.

“Those aren’t in that deep,” Ahdron says. “There’s a trick to getting them out. It doesn’t hurt, if you do it right.”

Berun stares up at him. “Do you know how?”

He nods. “You have to hold very still, though. Take a deep breath. I’ll unhook them on three.”

Berun grits his teeth, white-faced. Ahdron crouches and grabs the spines.

“One,” he says, and then immediately yanks hard. The spikes come out, blood running freely from the cuts they leave behind. Berun screams and clutches his hand to his chest, smearing his shirt with crimson. Meroe jolts.