The guards fell back, the new recruits in among them, and any differences were forgotten in the face of Namrat stalking through Mahala, his tiger teeth ready to rip throats out, to take the dead and send them where he would.
If I’d thought about it, I probably would have stayed where I was, or moved back in the tactical manoeuvre that is also known as “getting the hell out”. I certainly wouldn’t have gone charging off the way I did. The old me would have found a handy bolthole and stayed there till it was all over. Not any more, though it was still tempting. But I wasn’t the old me any more, or not completely.
Pasha and I ignored Perak’s shout behind us and ran, not away, towards. Fuck only knows why, when everything was telling me to get away and quick. Probably because I knew there was no chance of Pasha hanging back, not with Jake out there, and I wasn’t letting him take all the glory. I had my pulse pistol out from habit, but sense kicked in and I dragged out my bullet gun instead.
It wasn’t just an attack, it was a massacre. The ground was slick with blood and burned bodies, a sight to sicken even the hardest heart, but we didn’t have time to dwell on that. The Storad came, and we fell back before them, all of us, Special and guard helping new recruit and vice versa. Before that onslaught, we were all one. I remember thinking at least I’d die quickly, before I got to see Mahala completely destroyed, and wondering how the cardinals would put a Ministry spin on this, make it the Goddess’s will.
The Storad came through the swirling snow, flamers out in front. Guns weren’t all that much help when you couldn’t see what you were shooting, but their flamers – all they needed to do was get in range, flick the switch and watch men burn.
I fired my gun three, four times, fumbling the reloading with my bad hand so that I was alive with juice that I daren’t use, making my vision go black in patches, tempting me. That black tiger shape was everywhere I looked. I couldn’t see that I was doing any good with my gun, and wasn’t sure I wanted to. I’ve done some messed-up shit in my time, but to shoot a man, even a man who wanted me dead…
I wasn’t the only one either. All I could hear, in between shots, was people praying, pleading for help, for absolution. The guard next to me kept up a constant litany to the Goddess, even while his shaking hands raised his gun, while he pissed himself when a bullet came the other way and took a chunk out of his cheek before it flew off into the dark.
It was Pasha who turned it. I suppose it was always going to be Pasha, because he wasn’t just fighting for Mahala, or for his life. He was fighting for everything that made his life bearable, made it worth living, and she was out there somewhere, and in his head too. Jake would be fighting with all she had; she always did, so that the Goddess would love her, because she had to or die inside.
One second Pasha was next to me and the next he was running forward with a wild scream. His gun wasn’t out but he ran with his hands twisting and cracking, holding them out like they were the weapon, and I suppose they were. Before him Storad stopped firing, their faces confused blurs behind the swirling curtains of snow. One of the men holding a flamer turned without stopping his fire, and three Storad gunmen went up in flames. I can hear the screams now, the smell of their skin as it crisped. I can hear the words behind me, from men who would never accept a mage, words that spoke of fear of magic even as it saved their ugly butts.
And I remember the sudden rage at that. How I wanted to take my poor buggered hand and twist it, wanted to rearrange the whole damned place and everyone in it, Storad and Mahalian, wanted to twist their brains and make them see. Instead, I came over all sensible for once and lurched after Pasha. Snow and blood made the ground treacherous and I slipped more than ran. Pasha didn’t seem to notice, or care, but arrowed straight for the outer gates, or what was left of them. Straight for a bunch of Storad with guns and flamers at the ready.
The thing about Pasha was that he looked like a sulky monkey, he was as jittery as a mouse walking past a cat – but when he had to, when something he cared about was threatened, he turned all lion; and then caution, and indeed anything approaching sensible, went out of the window. Generally at the worst possible moment, like now.
I’d have bet any money you like that he didn’t even see those Storad waiting for him. All he was thinking about was where Jake was, if she was safe, whether whatever Allit had seen would come true. Almost laughable, considering she could probably dissect any one of them in two heartbeats. But that was all this was to him now, all these blood and bodies, all that was in front of him. It was all about Jake.