The sound was worse than the screams.
Skree-clack-skree.
It was the sound of metal claws scrambling on polished marble. It echoed down the spiral servants' staircase, getting louder with every second.
"Move," Marcus hissed.
He was shoulder-deep under Narcissus's left arm. Galen was under the right. Between them, the giant gladiator was a dead weight.
Narcissus's feet dragged on the stone steps. His head lulled forward. The makeshift bandage on his side was soaked through; fresh blood dripped a dark trail behind them.
"I can't... breathe," Narcissus wheezed.
His legs buckled.
Marcus staggered, his knees hitting the stone step hard. Galen let out a grunt of pain as the full weight shifted to him.
They collapsed in a heap on the landing.
"He can't run," Galen gasped, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. "We have to leave him."
"No," Marcus said. The Ghost of Commodus flared—not with rage, but with stubborn loyalty. "He carried me out of the fire. I carry him out of the grave."
Marcus grabbed Narcissus's face. He slapped him. Hard.
"Wake up, Dog! Do not die on these stairs!"
Narcissus's eyes fluttered open. They were glassy. "Caesar... the stars fell..."
Above them, a heavy thud shook the ceiling. Plaster dust rained down.
The clicking stopped. Then a shriek—high, electronic, and hungry—cut through the dark.
"It's tracking the blood," Lucilla whispered. She was huddled in the corner, her expensive suit torn, her face a mask of terror. "It smells the iron in the hemoglobin."
"What is it?" Marcus demanded, hauling Narcissus up again.
"A Scourge Unit," Lucilla said, her voice trembling. "Asset Denial. They don't just kill, Marcus. They clean. They dissolve organic matter to refuel their batteries."
Marcus looked at the blood trail.
"Down," he ordered. "Get to the cellar."
The wine cellar was damp and smelled of sour grapes.
Marcus kicked the door shut and barred it with a heavy oak cask.
"Light," he ordered.
Galen struck a flint. A small oil lamp sputtered to life.
The room was filled with racks of dusty amphorae. It was quiet, save for the drip of water and Narcissus's ragged breathing.
They laid the giant on a workbench.
"He's going into shock," Galen said, his hands moving fast. He ripped Narcissus's tunic open.
The wound was ugly. The pneumatic spear had punched a hole the size of a coin through the abdominal wall. It was dark, angry, and bubbling.
"I have no sutures," Galen said. "No cautery iron."
"Improvise," Marcus snapped.
Galen looked around. He grabbed a bottle of vintage Falernian wine. He smashed the neck.
He poured the wine into the wound.
Narcissus arched his back and screamed. Marcus clamped a hand over the gladiator's mouth.
"Quiet!"
Galen scraped green moss from the damp stone wall. He packed it into the hole.
"It will clot," Galen muttered. "Or it will rot. But the bleeding stops now."
CRACK.
The sound came from the door.
The heavy oak cask blocking it slid an inch.
Then a metal leg punched through the wood.
It wasn't a foot. It was a spear-tip made of chrome.
The wood splintered. The door exploded inward.
Marcus extinguished the lamp instantly.
Darkness.
Marcus grabbed Galen and pulled him behind a wine rack. Lucilla scrambled under a table.
In the gloom, a shape entered.
It wasn't a man. It wasn't a Sentinel.
It was a nightmare.
An Arachnid.
It was the size of a horse, walking on four multi-jointed legs made of polished brass and chrome. Its body was a bulbous tank filled with glowing green fluid. Its head was a cluster of glass lenses that rotated with a soft mechanical whir.
It didn't have a gun. It had a proboscis—a long, flexible tube that dripped slime.
It chattered as it moved. Click-click-click.
It stopped near the workbench where Narcissus lay unconscious.
Marcus gripped his sword. His heart hammered against his ribs. The Ghost slowed his pulse, forcing his body into cold stasis.
Don't move. Don't breathe.
The machine turned its head. The lenses glowed faint red.
It ignored Narcissus. It turned toward the corner.
A rat scurried along the baseboard.
The machine moved with terrifying speed. A leg pinned the rat's tail.
The proboscis lashed out.
HISS.
It sprayed a mist.
The rat didn't squeak. It dissolved. In seconds, the fur and flesh melted into a gray slurry.
The machine lowered its tube. It sucked up the puddle.
Slurp.
The green fluid in its abdomen tank glowed brighter. It had fed.
Galen retched. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the sound was there. A tiny, wet gag.
The machine whipped around.
The red eye focused on the wine rack.
It screeched.
"Run!" Marcus roared.
He kicked the wine rack over. Dozens of heavy amphorae crashed down on the machine.
The Arachnid stumbled, its legs scrambling for purchase on the wet floor.
Marcus charged.
He swung his gladius. He aimed for the leg joint.
CLANG.
The steel blade bounced off the chrome plating. It didn't even leave a scratch.
The machine lashed out with a leg. It caught Marcus in the chest, throwing him across the room. He hit the stone wall, winded.
The machine advanced. Its proboscis raised, dripping acid.
"It's armored!" Marcus yelled.
"The belly!" Lucilla screamed from under the table. "The tank is glass!"
Marcus looked up. The machine reared back to strike.
Its underbelly was exposed. A network of rubber hoses and the glowing tank.
Marcus didn't try to stand. He threw himself into a slide across the wine-slicked floor.
He slid directly under the monster.
Acid dripped onto his tunic, burning holes instantly.
Marcus thrust his sword upward.
He put both hands on the hilt and drove it home.
CRUNCH.
The glass shattered.
Green fluid sprayed out like a fire hose.
It hit Marcus's arm. The pain was blinding—like liquid fire eating his skin.
The machine shrieked—a digital death rattle. It convulsed, its legs thrashing wildly. It collapsed on top of itself, twitching.
Marcus rolled away, clutching his burning arm.
"Galen! Water!"
Galen grabbed a bucket of dirty water and splashed it over Marcus's arm to dilute the acid.
The machine lay still. Smoke rose from its circuitry.
Galen crept toward it. He picked up a piece of the shattered head. A glass lens.
"It's warm," Galen whispered. He looked through it. "Thermal. It sees heat."
From the spiral staircase outside, a sound echoed down.
Skree-clack-skree.
Not one. Dozens.
"It called for help," Marcus said, staggering to his feet. He looked at his arm. The skin was red and blistered, but the muscle was intact.
"They are swarming," Lucilla whispered. "We're dead."
"No," Marcus said. He looked at the muddy drain in the corner of the floor. "We just need to be cold."
He walked to the drain and ripped the grate off.
"Into the sewer," Marcus ordered.
"It's filth!" Lucilla protested.
"It's cold water," Marcus snapped. "If you want to live, you cover yourself in shit."
He grabbed Narcissus's legs.
"Galen, take the shoulders. We're going for a swim."