Frey had wanted to get the drop on them, but with Bess in tow it was impossible. By the time they’d rounded the corner, the men were alerted. Only the puzzling nature of the metallic clanks and leathery creaks had stopped them pulling out their guns. But now the golem stepped into sight, with Frey and his crew behind her. Some of the men went white and backed away, dropping their end of the chests. Others let their burden fall and drew guns. But Frey’s crew had their guns out already, and at the first sign of violence they started shooting.
The first volley cut down half of Orkmund’s men, most of them with their revolvers still half out of their holsters. The crew of the Ketty Jay ducked around the corner as the answering fire came, but it was mostly directed at Bess, who went stamping up the corridor, roaring as she did so. Those who hadn’t been killed in the initial volley stumbled backwards in the face of the metal giant, tripping over the chests, and scrambled to their feet to flee. Frey could hear Orkmund shouting something incoherent at them, urging them to stand and fight; but then there was a terrific explosion from above, and the calamitous sound of falling stone.
Dust billowed out of the corridor and engulfed his crew where they hid. Frey coughed into his fist and looked around the corner. It took some seconds for the dust to clear, but when it did he saw Bess standing there, dirty but unharmed. A section of the ceiling had caved in, burying all but one of the chests. Of Orkmund and his men, there was nothing to be seen. They’d either fled or been buried. Frey didn’t care which.
What he did care about was the red-lacquered chest that lay near Bess’s feet. A chest with a beautiful branch-and-leaf intaglio on the lid and a clasp in the shape of a silver wolf’s head. He ran to it and tugged at the lid. Locked. Stepping back, he blasted the clasp away with his revolver.
There would be no mistakes. He had to be sure.
The others had gathered around him as he knelt down and threw open the chest. Inside was a golden mass of ducats. Thousands upon thousands of coins. Even in the dust-hazed air, it seemed to him that they glimmered.
Bess leaned in over his shoulder to look. She cooed as she saw the wealth within.
Frey could hardly breathe. He had it at last. They had it at last. After all the years of scrabbling in the dirt, they were rich.
He stepped back, and looked at the joyous faces of his crew, transfixed by the sight of more money than they’d ever dreamed of.
‘Bess, pick that up,’ he said. ‘We’re getting out of here.’
Thirty- Eight
Frey didn’t hear the explosion. It took some seconds for his stunned senses to recover, but even then, all he could remember was the sensation of being squashed from above by an enormous force, like an insect trodden on by an invisible boot. After that, there was the taste of grit in his mouth, the stinging in his eyes, and the high-pitched whine in his ears, like the squeal of a turbine.
He looked around. Everything was muffled and clouded. The air was grey with pulverised stone. He was on his hands and knees. Ahead of him, what had once been a corridor was now a wall of broken stone.
A shell, he thought, numbly. Orkmund’s stronghold must have taken a direct hit.
Suddenly he was being pulled to his feet. He looked up dazedly to see Silo holding his arm. The Murthian was saying something, but he couldn’t hear. Silo stood him up and spoke with exaggerated volume and clarity, but to Frey it still sounded like it came from a great distance through the cottony pressure in his ears.
‘Cap’n? You hear me?’
‘A little bit,’ he replied. His voice sounded strange in his own head.
‘You hurt?’
