the occasional angry shout.
The three Rshun stayed close together as they moved through the long chamber. The floor of polished wood echoed under the fall of their boots.
A white-robed priest scurried past an archway, some fifty feet ahead. He glanced at the intruders but did not stop. They heard a door shut behind him, a key rattling in its lock. They moved through the same archway.
There were two Acolytes posted here, each guarding a single door. They drew their swords as the Rshun appeared, but did not budge from where they stood.
'Aleas,' prompted his master.
Aleas lifted his crossbow, and hesitated for only a second. Once, twice he fired and each time took an Acolyte in the chest. They both fell in gasping heaps, clawing at the embedded bolts.
'Keep moving,' suggested Ash.
As they approached the next chamber, they saw masked Acolytes fanning out with pistols in their hands. The Rshun took cover on either side of the archway leading into the chamber. Baracha tore free his robe. Aleas knelt to place his crossbow on the floor, then lit a pouch of flash powder with a carefully struck match. Something was dripping on to the floor – blood, Aleas realized, from his own cheek.
He tossed the burning bag inside the chamber beyond and drew back, ramming fingers in his ears. The instant it exploded in a bang and a searing flash, Baracha and Ash rushed into the chamber, Aleas lumbering only a few strides behind.
A dozen Acolytes reeled blindly with their hands pressed to their ears.
Ash broke the spell, running with a sudden lunge and slash. His blade sang. It seemed to miss the Acolyte who faced him, but then the man's head tilted backwards and toppled to the floor along with his hands, and the open stumps of his neck and wrists began to broadcast jets of blood which sprayed on to all of those nearby. A shot went off as Baracha cleaved a second man's belly, the puff of smoke fading into a bitter reek as the white-robes began to cast aside pistols in exchange for their swords, swinging them wildly in the general direction of their assailants. Another shot rang out, the sound lost in the chaos of the fighting.
Ash worked his way into the centre of their opponents' line, ducking and weaving, striking one and fending off another. Baracha moved behind him, covering their flanks by battering left and right. A white-robe lunged to pierce Baracha's exposed side, a crimson handprint stamped above his heart as though for the perfect target marker. Aleas shot the man spinning him to the floor. His master failed to notice.
As the fighting intensified, Aleas glanced up over the heads of the combatants and noticed a flight of steps, and at the top of these steps a female Acolyte of middle age standing tall and unmasked as she reloaded a pistol.
Coolly, Aleas took aim with his second shot and fired straight at her chest.
The crossbow string snapped just as it released the bolt, the ends of the string flapping backwards as the bolt clattered futilely against the stone wall behind his target. She looked up, and flashed him a smile with a mouthful of dyed-red teeth.
Aleas struggled to reload the crossbow with the last remaining string, and followed, from his peripheral vision, the motions of the woman raising her pistol to fire at him.
He saw smoke then flame, and was struck on the side of the head, and staggered backwards, and fell. Blood gushed from his scalp. Lying shakily on his back, half stunned, air hissing through his teeth, Aleas still fumbled to reload.
The Acolytes, as if regaining their senses, converged on Ash and Baracha in a concerted counter-attack. Ash moved too fast to be surrounded; Baracha had a more difficult time, his blade being much heavier. He took a slash across the back which opened up his leather jerkin, and the skin immediately beneath it.
Baracha cried something in Alhazii and swung his sword around without looking, staving in his attacker's ribs – where the blade stuck, forcing Baracha to pause in order to free it. The big man's head flicked up, just in time to see another Acolyte's sword sweeping down from above. It chopped through Baracha's left wrist before striking the wooden floor and sticking fast.
Aleas wiped his eyes clear as he finally slotted the trembling string into place. His master was hollering in a great gust of rage and pain while his eyes fixed on his severed hand lying on the floor. Baracha hefted his sword with his other hand, and opened the Acolyte's throat with it.
He went into a frenzy after that.
'Aeos, Toomes, bullshorns,' shouted the woman, still fumbling to reload her own weapon. 'Flank and take the young one.'
Two Acolytes broke off from their engagements and headed towards him.
Aleas, still on the floor, pushed himself backwards as he hurried to place a bolt against the now-drawn string. He launched it into the stomach of his nearest attacker. The second jumped forward, and then Aleas was suddenly in his own battle, fending off blows with the unloaded crossbow. For a moment he panicked, as a slash knocked the weapon from his hands. Aleas rolled clear. He struggled to his feet, his load of equipment slowing him, and his balance all wrong. He drew his sword.
The Acolyte was good, but then so was Aleas. It was instinct that made him duck beneath one unexpected sweep; he came up with the point of his blade lunging at the man's neck, which the Acolyte barely avoided. They were both panting hard, one in armour and the other weighted with equipment. Aleas was fitter, though. He swiped aside a riposte and stepped forward, cali style, his outstroke taking the man in the side. He twisted the blade. Slipped it out. Allowed the man to fall to the floor.
He glanced up to see the fight was theirs. Only two Acolytes remained on their feet, both confronting Ash. Baracha was striding towards the woman who stood upon the steps, bellowing words whose sense was drowned by their own volume.
The woman fired her pistol but missed. She tossed it aside and drew her blade, assuming a wide-footed stance on the topmost step.
'Come then, you big bastard,' she declared.
Baracha climbed six steps then flicked the stump of his arm at her. Blood lashed across her eyes.
His next move drove his blade cleanly through her abdomen. He dragged her, impaled, from the top step to stand beside him. He used his foot to push her free of the blade. She clattered down the steps and lay still.
A sense of calm fell upon the scene. The last Acolytes had fallen. Moans, coughs and retching echoed against the high ceiling above them.
Baracha sagged to one knee. 'Aleas,' he groaned.
Aleas wove his way through the carnage and went to the aid of his master.
Baracha looked to the top of the stairs, where a heavy vault door blocked the way. 'To the top, boy. Take me to the top.'
Together they struggled upwards. It was a slippery business, though, since Baracha was losing blood fast. Aleas helped to lower him to the floor, propping his back against the door. They had a clear vantage point from there, difficult for anyone to surprise them.
'Tourniquet,' his master rasped. He had turned bone-white, and his teeth were beginning to chatter. With haste, Aleas threw open the medico and set to work.
Ash stumbled up the steps and collapsed against the door beside Baracha. He was covered from toe to scalp in blood, though fortunately most of it appeared not to be his own.
'How are you?' he gasped.
Baracha looked down at his stump. With the tourniquet in place, the flow of blood had decreased, though it was still looking bad.
'I lost my hand,' was all he could say.
Aleas stopped his master from further chatter by shoving a strip of leather between his teeth. He tore open one of the bags of flash powder, sprinkled some on to the stump without warning. Baracha bit down on the strip in his mouth; the leather he wore creaked. Aleas fumbled with lighting a match, then held it against the stump. The powder went up in a flash, instantly cauterizing the wound. Baracha rolled his eyes upwards and passed out, whereupon Aleas set about wrapping a bandage around it.
Beside them, Ash was fumbling through the medico. He took out the pot of rush oil and dabbed more of the white cream against his tongue. He shook his head to clear it.
'We're in bad shape, Master Ash.'
'Hoh,' exclaimed the old man. 'I did not expect us to make it even this far.'
