enormously rich businessman, and he’d been only moments from making himself a part of that inheritance. He swore under his breath.
Damn it, I should have married her, too!
By the time they went rushing down the cargo ramp and out into Retribution Falls, Frey was quite eager to shoot someone.
Thirty-Seven
Pirates and whores ran in panic across the square, heads covered against the thundering concussions and the threat of falling rubble. Their aircraft had been destroyed on the landing pad, cutting off any hope of escape. Now they were helpless witnesses as the Navy pummelled the pirate frigates overhead and fighters wheeled and spat bullets. They fled for what shelter they could and hoped that fate would be merciful.
Frey led his crew down the cargo ramp, cutlass swinging against his leg, pistols raised. The stink of the marsh hit them as they came out into the open air and took up positions around the Ketty Jay. He’d been expecting some resistance from the locals, but he found himself pleasantly disappointed. The freebooters who were passing through the square couldn’t have cared less why they were landing their craft here. As long as they weren’t wearing Navy colours, they could do what they liked. The sight of Bess coming down the ramp deterred any thought of further enquiry.
Frey glanced at the Navy fleet, visible in the distance, a few kloms away. They were spreading out defensively as the pirate craft increased their assault. Half the pirate army’s larger craft were destroyed, but the others were giving as good as they got. Frey saw a Navy frigate slip into a groaning descent, its flanks aflame.
As far as he was concerned, both sides could blow themselves to pieces. He had little love for either. As long as some Navy craft survived to tell the tale and exonerate him, that was fine.
‘Alright, let’s go!’ he cried. Silo closed up the cargo ramp and they hurried towards their target with the Murthian covering their backs.
There was a barricade surrounding Orkmund’s squat, grey stronghold. The watchtowers surmounting the mass of crossed girders and spikes were empty, but the gate was still closed. It was an enormous slab of metal on rollers, heavy enough to need three men to move it and presumably secured on the other side.
‘Bess! Open that gate!’ Frey called.
The golem stamped past him. She dug her massive fingers into the metal and wrenched. The gate shrieked in protest as a bolt on the inside resisted, but Bess’s strength was inexorable, and it slowly gave way.
Frey could see one or two men who had stopped at the edge of the square and were staring. Clearly, they were puzzled to see several men who looked like pirates breaking in to the pirate captain’s stronghold. Malvery raised his shotgun and sighted at one of them; Silo took aim at the other.
‘Keep moving, lads. This doesn’t concern you.’
They decided that it didn’t concern them after all. There was a loud snap of metal and the gate rolled out of the way with a screech.
‘Nice work, Bess,’ said Frey. Crake patted her on the arm as they sallied inside.
Orkmund’s stronghold wasn’t large - certainly not the size of somewhere like Mortengrace - but it was secure. The grey, mould-streaked walls were thick, and the windows were small and deeply set. Too small to climb through.
Once inside the barricade they were faced with a squat, three-storey building with two projecting wings on either side, making a three-sided square. The entrance was set between the wings, at the far end of the square.
Frey led them to the nearest wall, at the tip of one of the wings. He pressed himself against it and looked around the corner. He was sweating with the tension. At any moment he expected to be shot at by
