But the Tronsvasse was scrap. It looked fairly intact, but the impact had fused the slide and the trigger mechanism. It was basically an ugly paperweight.

The shooting had stopped. Nayl kept low, peering out. He watched the shadows. The air was thick with swarming insects and the black smoke from down below. But the strongest light source was coming from the gantry above and behind him. He could see the shadow cast by the handrail of the short access steps that linked the control deck to the platform. They were close by, just four or five metres ahead of him.

He saw another shadow. Movement.

There. The distinct shadow of two long guns held ready, panning.

The shooter was edging down the steps. He was keeping low, almost crouching against the handrail, weapons ready to fire at any movement.

Just you come closer, Nayl thought.

But it was an idle wish. There was no way the shooter wouldn’t see Nayl crouching under the cogitator station, the moment he reached the control deck level. Then it would all end in a flurry of las-fire.

It was die, or bluff. Bluffing was a fool’s game, but it was preferable to just dying. Nayl waited as long as he dared. He waited for the shadow to edge down further. He waited to detect the sound of a footstep on the deck.

Come on, come on…

He could see the man’s shadow moving clear from the shadow of the handrail.

Now or never.

‘Don’t move!’ Nayl yelled.

The shadow froze.

Drusher hauled the exhausted Voriet up the last few rungs of the ladder, and they sat panting on the platform in front of the tower’s entry hatch. The shooting had stopped. Drusher wondered who was still alive.

Voriet sat back, eyes closed, far gone with pain and fatigue. Drusher slowly got to his feet, keeping low, and looked across the gantry.

The upper levels of the tower were heavy with black smoke. The swarming insects were everywhere, blizzarding through the dirty air. The Loom was thundering, racing at full power. A fierce light shone from the iron cage in the centre of the gantry.

There was a figure inside it.

A man, cuffed, kneeling, his back arched. A man in agony. Terrible sounds were coming out of him, terrible words that were not words. The sound of them made Drusher feel sick.

‘Eisenhorn,’ he murmured.

Voriet didn’t reply.

‘Voriet,’ Drusher cried, shaking him. ‘It’s Eisenhorn!’

‘What?’ Voriet blinked at him, confused.

‘That’s Eisenhorn. Down there. In the cage.’

‘It can’t be…’

‘I’m telling you it is.’

‘Where are you going? Magos?’

‘I’m going to get him,’ said Drusher, keeping low and heading down the short flight of steps onto the gantry. ‘I’m going to help him.’

‘Magos!’ Voriet shouted. ‘Magos? Drusher… come back!’

Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

The Cage