“I’ll cough if the guards start to turn around.”
My reasons for making Dhal do this wasn’t ‘cause he’s the only one who can get those oversized garbage bins working again. By far he has the slightest build and the best chances of working himself free. One of the guards begins to glance over and I pretend to clear my throat. But Dhal’s not stopping. He’s making good progress and not paying attention. I cough a bit louder and this time he freezes. The guard’s still glaring at us when his partner throws the dice and shouts gleefully. A second later, both of them are focused on the game again.
When I turn back to give Dhal the all clear, he’s gone and so is his chair. I turn to look behind me and see what the smart little bugger has done. He’s slid his chair back behind mine and lined up the legs so the next time those guards turn around, they won’t immediately see an empty chair. Course, something about the sight before them will look different, but hopefully they won’t quite be able to put their fingers on it. My next concern is the tools Dhal’s gonna need to get the job done. Already, I can hear a tiny clank here and there and I just know he’s gotta hurry before these two gambling addicts figure out what we’re up to. Slowly I turn my head, so as not to draw any unwanted attention, and catch sight of Dhal climbing the scaffolding around the largest of the two machines, with something that looks like a breadbox in his arms. He’s about to insert the power core. I’m not certain, but that’s my best guess. I turn back and at once my heart leaps into my throat. Dusty Beard’s just entered the room and both of the guards are standing at attention. He’s giving them shit over something, playing dice maybe, dereliction of duty, the usual riot act petty men use as their stock and trade.
A metal door slams behind us and there isn’t a chance in hell those assholes didn’t hear that. Dusty Beard is scanning through the dimly lit chamber for the source of the noise, then his eyes pass over us and stop in the space where Dhal was sitting.
He charges forward growling. “The boy, where is he?”
Behind us, almost in answer, comes the sound of compressed air and spinning gears. We all turn at once to see one of the bronze behemoths raise its arms and tear the scaffolding away as though it were cobwebs. The machine’s eyes glow a bright yellow and Dusty Beard’s just standing there, with this jaw hanging open. The guards nearby are wearing the same dumb expressions.
Without a moment to lose, I begin working free from my ropes. Dusty sees me and pulls out a knife from a sheath on his belt. I’m sure he’s gonna stick all of us before we can escape and, judging by that gleam in his eye, he intends to start with me.
The knife in Dusty Beard’s hand is ten inches long with a serrated edge. The kind that hurts like hell going in and tears you apart coming out. I haven’t a clue where Dhal is now, after all that scaffolding came crashing down, but I can hear the joints of his machine squealing and the ground rumbling with every giant step it takes. Looks like Dusty’s estimating how much time it’ll take to kill me. Probably figures the job won’t be hard, since half of me is still tied to the chair. Ten yards behind him, those two guards aren’t sure whether to stay and help their man commit murder or hi-tail it out and save themselves from becoming turds under the Titan’s shoe. Dusty’s about two feet away, and making ready to stick me straight in the chest, when I straight kick his knee. Even over the screaming whine of the Titan’s approaching footfalls, I catch the sound of his joint bending back on itself and snapping in two. He stumbles forward and I stomp his face, sending him sprawling back in agony. His beard is still dusty, except for the imprint of where my boot connected with his jaw.
I slide under the loosened ropes, snatch the knife from his limp hand and begin cutting
My reasons for making Dhal do this wasn’t ‘cause he’s the only one who can get those oversized garbage bins working again. By far he has the slightest build and the best chances of working himself free. One of the guards begins to glance over and I pretend to clear my throat. But Dhal’s not stopping. He’s making good progress and not paying attention. I cough a bit louder and this time he freezes. The guard’s still glaring at us when his partner throws the dice and shouts gleefully. A second later, both of them are focused on the game again.
When I turn back to give Dhal the all clear, he’s gone and so is his chair. I turn to look behind me and see what the smart little bugger has done. He’s slid his chair back behind mine and lined up the legs so the next time those guards turn around, they won’t immediately see an empty chair. Course, something about the sight before them will look different, but hopefully they won’t quite be able to put their fingers on it. My next concern is the tools Dhal’s gonna need to get the job done. Already, I can hear a tiny clank here and there and I just know he’s gotta hurry before these two gambling addicts figure out what we’re up to. Slowly I turn my head, so as not to draw any unwanted attention, and catch sight of Dhal climbing the scaffolding around the largest of the two machines, with something that looks like a breadbox in his arms. He’s about to insert the power core. I’m not certain, but that’s my best guess. I turn back and at once my heart leaps into my throat. Dusty Beard’s just entered the room and both of the guards are standing at attention. He’s giving them shit over something, playing dice maybe, dereliction of duty, the usual riot act petty men use as their stock and trade.
A metal door slams behind us and there isn’t a chance in hell those assholes didn’t hear that. Dusty Beard is scanning through the dimly lit chamber for the source of the noise, then his eyes pass over us and stop in the space where Dhal was sitting.
He charges forward growling. “The boy, where is he?”
Behind us, almost in answer, comes the sound of compressed air and spinning gears. We all turn at once to see one of the bronze behemoths raise its arms and tear the scaffolding away as though it were cobwebs. The machine’s eyes glow a bright yellow and Dusty Beard’s just standing there, with this jaw hanging open. The guards nearby are wearing the same dumb expressions.
Without a moment to lose, I begin working free from my ropes. Dusty sees me and pulls out a knife from a sheath on his belt. I’m sure he’s gonna stick all of us before we can escape and, judging by that gleam in his eye, he intends to start with me.
The knife in Dusty Beard’s hand is ten inches long with a serrated edge. The kind that hurts like hell going in and tears you apart coming out. I haven’t a clue where Dhal is now, after all that scaffolding came crashing down, but I can hear the joints of his machine squealing and the ground rumbling with every giant step it takes. Looks like Dusty’s estimating how much time it’ll take to kill me. Probably figures the job won’t be hard, since half of me is still tied to the chair. Ten yards behind him, those two guards aren’t sure whether to stay and help their man commit murder or hi-tail it out and save themselves from becoming turds under the Titan’s shoe. Dusty’s about two feet away, and making ready to stick me straight in the chest, when I straight kick his knee. Even over the screaming whine of the Titan’s approaching footfalls, I catch the sound of his joint bending back on itself and snapping in two. He stumbles forward and I stomp his face, sending him sprawling back in agony. His beard is still dusty, except for the imprint of where my boot connected with his jaw.
I slide under the loosened ropes, snatch the knife from his limp hand and begin cutting
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