Retribution Falls
Chris Wooding
One
The smuggler held the bullet between thumb and forefinger, studying it in the weak light of the store room. He smiled sourly.
‘Just imagine,’ he said. ‘Imagine what this feels like, going through your head.’
Grayther Crake didn’t want to imagine anything of the sort. He was trying not to throw up, having already disgraced himself once that morning. He glanced at the man next to him, hoping for some sign that he had a plan, some way to get them out of this. But Darian Frey’s face was hard, and showed nothing.
Both of them had their wrists tied together, backs against the damp and peeling wall. Three armed thugs ensured they stayed there.
The smuggler’s name was Lawsen Macarde. He was squat and grizzled, hair and skin greasy with a sheen of sweat and grime, features squashed across a face that was broad and deeply lined. Crake watched him slide the bullet into the empty drum of his revolver. He spun it, snapped it shut, then turned towards his audience.
‘Do you think it hurts?’ he mused. ‘Even for a moment? Or is it all over - bang! - in a fash?’
‘If you’re that curious, try it out on yourself,’ Frey suggested.
Macarde hit him in the gut, putting all of his considerable weight behind the punch. Frey doubled over with a grunt and almost went to his knees. He straightened with some effort until he was standing again.
‘Good point,’ he wheezed. ‘Well made.’
Macarde pressed the muzzle of the revolver against Crake’s forehead, and stared at Frey.
‘Count of three. You want to see your man’s brains all over the wall?’
Frey didn’t reply. Crake’s face was grey beneath his close-cropped blond beard. He stank of alcohol and sweat. His eyes flicked to the captain nervously.
‘One.’
Frey showed no signs of reacting.
‘I’m just a passenger!’ Crake said. ‘I’m not even part of his crew!’ His accent betrayed an aristocratic upbringing which wasn’t evident from his appearance. His hair was scruffy, his boots vomit-spattered, his greatcoat half-unbuttoned and hanging open. To top it off, he was near soiling himself with fear.
‘You have the ignition code for the Ketty Jay?’ Macarde asked him. ‘You know how to fire her up and get her flying?’
Crake swallowed and shook his head.
‘Then shut up. Two.’
‘Nobody flies the Ketty Jay but me, Macarde. I told you that,’ Frey said. His eyes flickered restlessly around the store room. Cloud-muffled sunlight drifted in through horizontal slits high up on one stone wall, illuminating rough-sewn hemp sacks, coils of rope, wicked-looking hooks that hung on chains from the ceiling. Chill shadows cut deep into the seamed faces of Macarde and his men, and the air smelled of damp and decay.
‘Three,’ said Macarde, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Crake flinched and whimpered as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. After a moment, it sank in: he was still alive. He let out a shuddering
