rushed for them, wordless and expressionless, but they seemed almost over-fast, out of their own control. Tseitus smashed one across the face with his makeshift blade, and Stenwold was able to simply sidestep another. He gave the creature a shove and it lost its footing and fell past him, although it was back on its feet almost instantly. As they beat a quick retreat he had the fleeting thought: they are used to fighting in water only. I have been told how they are the only sea-kinden that have no use for the air.
Then someone was bellowing at him to get out of the way, and he turned to see Mandir, of all people, and a band of his warriors. To the Man of the Stations’ credit, there was no order right then, to recapture the landsmen. The Echinoi were all that Mandir had eyes for. He had a dozen of the big Onychoi, and most of them bore the tube-barrelled weapons that Stenwold had noticed before. The heads of the bolts protruding from them were more like axe-blades than arrows. Other men there, of several kinden, had the curved falx swords and two- pronged spears, and there was even a couple of crabs crouched before the line, their pincers wide in threat.
The Echinoi had got into their stride and rushed the line with their crawling, many-limbed beast coursing through the water behind them. Mandir barked a single word, and his warriors loosed their weapons. The shock of concerted release staggered even the great Onychoi, and the sound of a half-dozen spring-loaded plates being released sounded uncannily like a volley of snapbow shot. Tseitus said they made good springs, Stenwold thought numbly, as Laszlo tugged at his sleeve. The broad-headed missiles were a momentary blur in the air, and then most of the Echinoi were down. Stenwold saw limbs cut clean away, enormous gashes ripped through corrugated orange hide. One was beheaded entirely, the truncated body standing with sword upraised before dropping to its knees.
The Onychoi were not done, though. As the bowmen began to crank back their springs once more, the balance of Mandir’s forces set upon the stricken Echinoi, hacking them limb from limb. The few that remained standing showed no fear, striking out at their enemies even as they were impaled on barbed spears, pinned to the ground and torn apart. Their flesh seemed impossibly tough, and Stenwold saw bristly severed limbs crawling blindly through the water, some with weapons still clutched in their grip. Their great beast suddenly surged forward, knocking a Kerebroi man to the ground and engulfing him, cutting his scream off halfway. The defenders were soon all about the creature, stabbing and cutting, the crabs worrying away at its legs, snapping spines and tearing at the delicate feet beneath.
Laszlo was shouting at him. Laszlo had been shouting at him for some time. ‘We have to go!’ the Fly’s shrill voice insisted, and Stenwold came to himself and realized the man was right. We are not meant to be here, he swore, in so many ways.
They ducked through another cramped sequence of crawlspaces, with Laszlo forever having to come back for them, two wheezing academics twice his size. The sound of fighting was all about them, frequently the very walls booming and shaking to melee on the far side. The last narrow space that Laszlo urged them through was awash with water whose level was definitely rising. Mandir’s people must have pumps, must be sealing off breaches, but the Echinoi aren’t taking no for an answer.
He groaned and hauled himself out of the crawlspace with Tseitus almost jabbing at his heels. Laszlo hovered above them and, looking up at him, Stenwold almost missed noticing the shadow of movement.
‘Duck!’ Stenwold cried out, and Laszlo’s Fly-kinden reflexes took it from there, hurling him up so fast that he bounced from the ceiling, as a spear whistled past him. Stenwold was granted a moment’s grace to regain his feet as the Fly’s aerobatics caught their attackers by surprise. It was another Kerebroi man, surely Claeon’s second assassin, and he had done better in terms of hired help. There was a couple of the tall, thin Dart-kinden there, with spears at the ready, and a single hulking Onychoi in full armour, foot-long claws curving from his gauntlets.
Stenwold loosed his little snapbow at the big man immediately. Let’s see how Rosander’s kin stand up to Low-lander engineering, was his only thought.
He detected the impact as a puff of dust rose from the mail, but the man barely staggered. Whatever accreated substance his shell was built from, Lowlander engineering was clearly not equal to it. Stenwold scrambled back fast as the two spearmen rushed him.
Tseitus got one of them: he sprang somewhat arthritically out from their entry hole, but Claeon’s people had been warned to expect two landsmen, not three. The Ant’s home-made sword pierced the lanky sea-kinden under the ribs, a flare of Ant strength driving it up to the hilt. The Ant’s expression was gaunt with disbelief at where his life was taking him.
Stenwold was already rushing in, the second spearman briefly distracted, but Tseitus was abruptly disarmed by his own success as the body of his victim took his sword hilt from his hand. The Kerebroi, Claeon’s man, kept shouting furious orders.
Stenwold got in past the spearhead before it could turn on him, and caught hold of the shaft with one hand, guessing that he would be stronger than the slender Dart-kinden. For a moment they fought over it, Stenwold hauling with all his weight and the other man twisting almost bonelessly, prying to loosen his grip. Laszlo darted overhead, but his attention was elsewhere. Stenwold heard the sound of grating armour and a shadow fell over him. In sudden fright he pushed where he had been pulling, releasing the spear and sending the Dart-kinden stumbling away. The Onychoi warrior was right there, gauntlet raised, but it was Tseitus who crouched before him. The Ant had just managed to free his sword, and now he swung it with all his might into the enormous armoured chest.
The force of the impact sent the weapon spinning from Tseitus’s hand, leaving the artificer yelling with pain and clutching at his wrist. Even as Stenwold lunged forward, the gauntleted fist descended, punching down between the Ant’s neck and shoulder with a snapping of bone, the impact driving Tseitus instantly to the floor. Laszlo buzzed helplessly about the Onychoi’s helm, ignored and impotent.
Stenwold yelled something wordless, and the spear-butt struck him across the face and knocked him from his feet. He looked up, head spinning, to see the sharp end levelled down towards him. The lean, hollow-cheeked face of his enemy was without pity.
Laszlo passed by again, and the spear tip flicked up to follow him, nearly catching him despite all his agility. He flitted between the spearman and the Onychoi, weaving midway between claw and lance point. His mouth full of blood, Stenwold was half sitting up, still reeling from the blow.
Someone else was standing over him a moment later, a hand extended towards the spearman for all the world like a Wasp-kinden loosing a sting at point-blank range. Stenwold saw it then, the barb-tipped ribbon that flicked from Phylles’s palm to puncture the man’s skin. It was a pinprick, merely, but the effect was almost instant – the Dart-kinden began staggering and spasming, spear dropping from his hands virtually into Stenwold’s own.
Another figure dashed past: Fel? But it was Fel in a kind of half-armour comprised of breast and back, shoulders and bracers, and a swept-back crested helm. He looked as lean as whipcord before the bulk of the Onychoi, but once he took his stance, armed only with a pair of narrow daggers and his Art-toughened fists, the huge warrior stepped back.
The spear felt smooth-hafted and alien in his hands, as Stenwold hunched his way over to Tseitus, dragging the man’s body up from the swirling water. There was no hope. That single blow had descended hard enough to smash his whole body out of shape. The bluish-white face was strangely composed, the eyes staring with icy clarity at nothing at all.
There sounded two harsh cracks, and Stenwold looked up to see the Greatclaw Onychoi staggering backwards, first one heavy step and then the next. There were now crazed lines jagging their way across the breadth of his breastplate. Meanwhile, Fel was moving fast, shifting from foot to foot in a random, jerky pattern, swaying back from one swinging blow and ducking close in under another. He struck again, a blur that Stenwold barely saw. The hard shell of Fel’s knuckles shattered the huge man’s shoulder-guard, and stove in the chest armour entirely. Stenwold saw the folded spines flick forwards, turning the fists from bludgeons into punch- daggers.
Beyond the lurching Onychoi he saw the orchestrator of all this: Claeon’s hired killer. The slender Kerebroi brandished a curved sword, but was backing away, realizing the cause was lost. Stenwold snarled, feeling an unaccustomed rush of rage within him, such as he thought he had left behind in his younger days. A moment later he was charging the man, the unfamiliar spear levelled. He heard the voices of Laszlo and Wys cry out his name, but he was having none of it. Vengeance, his blood howled. Vengeance for a distant, hostile academic who had never liked him much even back on land, but Tseitus had been a Master of the College and a hero of the Vekken
