‘We attack!’ she snapped. ‘What else is there?’
The driver just gaped at her, but Straessa leant past him. ‘Commander, we’ve lost! We have to get back behind our walls before they catch us in the open.’
‘They’re not trying to catch us in the open, and your walls will not save you,’ Kymene declared flatly. She pointed out towards the enemy ‘They’ve halted,
Sub-officer.’
Straessa stood, frowning, then stepped on the back of the driver’s seat. The trailing mass of fugitive soldiers was still being harried by the Airborne but, now that she looked, the main
body of the Imperial army did seem to be holding their ground.
‘Well that’s . . .’ she began uncertainly. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means their artillery is in range of the city,’ Kymene informe her. ‘There is no other reason for them to stop.’
‘But they’re . . .’ She could just about make out what might be Collegium over to the west, although the dust made that uncertain. ‘You can’t . . .
Seriously?’ And then came the unwelcome knowledge that, of course, Kymene had been through all this before.
‘If we do not act now, the city is lost,’ Kymene said, and it was plain that she had no intention of finding herself in this position again, one way or the other. ‘We will
break into the enemy camp and destroy their engines, just as the automotives were supposed to do. It is the only way. Or else, if you decide to run, just keep running. There’s no point
stopping once you reach Collegium.’
Coward
, was her unspoken implication, just as Straessa’s mind was screaming,
Madwoman
. But it stung, that accusation. It stung beyond any veneer of common sense or tactical
consideration. And the woman was right, as well, as far as Straessa could weigh the odds.
‘Sub?’ asked one of her people, or perhaps one of those from another maniple.
‘I resign my commission,’ said the Antspider, only realizing afterwards that she’d said it aloud. A lot of people were staring at her.
‘I’m staying,’ she called out, pitching her voice to carry. ‘I’m giving no orders. Your choice.’ With that inspiring speech, she slung herself over the side
of the automotive and went to stand by the Mynans.
Perhaps a little under half made the same choice, forming themselves into makeshift, patchwork maniples. Their entire armed strength was just a mote before the great storm that the Empire was
bringing.
Punch our way in. Destroy artillery. Get out. Oh, yes, can see all of that happening.
Straessa was beginning to hope that Chief Officer Marteus really was dead, because otherwise she was
going to kill him for promoting her.
‘Let’s go,’ ordered Kymene, and a moment later the Mynans were moving off: black and red armour and peaked helms, blue-grey faces set in expressions that spoke of being driven
to the wall one too many times. After an awkward pause, the rallied Company soldiers followed suit. Straessa shouted at them to spread out, to make themselves more difficult targets, but she barely
had the voice for it, nor the heart.
Then there was a buzzing, a murmuring sound that swelled behind them, familiar to them but new to the battlefield, and a moment later the orthopters were racing overhead, wings ablur. The
soldiers began to scatter immediately, fearing the worst, but Kymene just stood and stared upwards. Then her sword was pointing high in triumph.
‘They’re ours!’ she cried, to those already with her, and to the others who were still streaming past. ‘Collegium to me!’
Amnon hauled himself to his knees, wiping blood from his mouth.
We gave them a chase, though, didn’t we?
His surviving automotives had simply not slowed, but rushed like maddened animals back and forth, a mobile barrier of steel to shield the Collegiate retreat, moving swiftly to give the Imperial
artillery – and the Sentinels – a difficult time in bringing their weapons to bear. The Airborne had swooped on them. The infantry had tried to board them. Vehicles had been falling out
of the chase from the start, swarmed or smashed. They had failed from the beginning, Amnon understood. They had not been able to get close to the artillery that was even now being erected in the
heart of the Imperial camp.
The last wreckage of the Collegiate automotive assault was strewn all around him. His own machine, faithful to the last, had thrown him clear as it turned over, the engine and front axle
destroyed by a Sentinel’s leadshot, and the driver along with it.
Amnon lurched to his feet. Barely a hundred yards away, well within snapbow range, were the enemy. They had ceased their advance and were putting up slanting barriers of wood and metal about
their perimeter, against any Collegiate counterattack.
Closer, outside that evolving compound, was one of the Sentinels, probably the very one that had finally brought down his automotive. It shifted position minutely as he looked at it. Whatever
slots or lenses the driver used to view the world were, he felt, fixed on him. He, who knew the secrets of hunting every living thing in the Jamail delta back home, understood when he had become
the quarry.
He found a sword amidst the wreckage – not the leaf-bladed Khanaphir implement he would have preferred, nor even a crescent-guarded Collegium weapon, but a cross-hilted Imperial piece. It
would be enough.
The Sentinel came closer, many feet picking a path through the strewn metal. The great blind eye regarded him imperiously.
He was not First Soldier of Khanaphir now, nor was he the partner of Praeda Rakespear, whom he had loved. He was not even an officer of the Collegiate army, given that it was either dead or
fled. He was Amnon, though, the warrior and the hunter, and he still had a sword.
He gathered himself with all his strength and then he was running, a handful of swift steps towards the Sentinel and then a leap, even as its rotary piercers started spitting bolts.
The shots almost clipped his heels, then he was grappling with the smooth side of the machine, finding purchase between plates in the moments before those gaps clenched shut. He kept kicking and
scrabbling until he was crouched atop the Sentinel, the one place that it could not attack him.
It spun left and right in search of him, then began bucking and lurching, somehow knowing where he was. Amnon clung on, though, hacking at its steel hide until the sword broke, and then slamming
his hands down against the metal shell. The first snapbow bolt skipped off the hull nearby, Light Airborne wondering what he thought he could achieve.
Praeda was dead, and Amnon knew he would follow her soon enough, but he had one thing to accomplish first. Getting his fingers underneath one of the great articulated plates of the
Sentinel’s casing, he planted his feet firmly and heaved. There had never been a beast so fierce that he could not kill it, nor so well armoured that he had not found its weak spot. He
refused
to give in, or admit that his life and skills were obsolete.
Another couple of bolts struck nearby, indicating that the Imperial soldiers were taking more of an interest. Amnon ignored them and continued to strain at the metal, the prodigious strength
that had made him the wonder of the age in Khanaphes focusing in the single task of prising the machine’s armour up and exposing its innards.
In his mind was Praeda, and his city, and Collegium, all hovering over a solid core of effort, every sinew and every muscle pushed to its limit in seeking the impossible.
It gave an inch in his grip, bolts shearing, and he bellowed, a great anguished yell of loss and defiance, and ripped up the casing in a scream of tortured metal. Triumph flared within him: he
was again the First Soldier of Khanaphes and, in that moment, he was the equal of anything this new world could throw at him.
He looked down, and almost laughed at feeling the hope drain out of him. Beneath the armour was just steel, more steel, as invulnerable as the rest.
Then the Wasp soldiers, who had suddenly begun taking him seriously, put a bolt through his leg and another through his shoulder, punching him off his perch atop the machine. He never saw the
Stormreaders coming.
Speeding across the bright open sky felt like being in another world: no longer the ravaged city below them, but Collegium’s army forming a blurred host, and the enemy
ahead.
Oh, now, here we go
, Taki thought, because she could see some Farsphex already lurching into the air with unseemly haste, desperate to intercept the oncoming Collegiate fliers. She
gritted her teeth, waiting to see whether the Empire had somehow mustered yet another great assembly of orthopters to stop them in their tracks. If they could not carry out their mission here, then
the war was lost, despite every price they had paid so far.
A hard, savage smile came to her face.
Five, I see just five.
Collegium had been able to put thirty-four Stormreaders in the air, twenty-seven of them modified to the latest specification, including this borrowed craft of Taki’s. The
Esca
Magni
had been too abused to take to the air again with any certainty of it staying there.
Oh, they have heart
, she acknowledged, because those five Imperial machines showed no hesitation: in for the kill, their rotaries ablaze with bolts, despite the odds. The modified
Stormreaders were handling sluggishly too, due to all that extra weight clasped to their bellies by the modified landing legs. Still, seven of them were as nimble as they ever were, and for once,
just this once, Collegium had overwhelming numbers in its favour.
She drew her craft to one side as the lead Farsphex came in, saw the enemy shift sideways, still trying for a kill as it evaded the first jabbing shots of the Collegiates. The Wasp cut up one of
the laden Stormreaders badly, making it falter and lose height, before being picked off, a half-dozen different orthopters jockeying for the honour of the strike. The other enemy fared the same,
giving a better account of themselves than anyone could have asked in the circumstances, and yet they accomplished nothing.
Then the Imperial army was spread below them, half-ensconced within their walls, and packed close together – just the wrong sort of security.
Some of the others were making their attack runs, but Taki took this chance to pass over and circle back, because they had a mission, and they had to get it right.
Colonel Mittoc looked up into the suddenly busy sky. All around him soldiers were lifting into the air, as though their Art wings or their little stings could make any
difference at this point. Behind him were the greatshotters, mostly complete now thanks to the practised skill of his engineers, within range of the Collegiate walls, and ready to bring the city to
its knees. He had been looking forward to using them.
The first bomb landed far to his left, tearing open a handful of tents and rather more soldiers. With an artificer’s appreciation he noted the way the Collegiates had adapted their
vessels’ landing gear as a bomb cradle. He estimated that these charges were about half the power of the devices dropped on Collegium itself, the delivery system makeshift, and the small
orthopters almost crippled by the weight.
It hardly mattered. The Collegiates had the sky. Not a Farsphex was to be seen.
The Imperial artillery commander knew that this was a time for discretion rather than valour, and that he himself was standing in exactly the wrong place, but Collegiate bombs were spiralling
down all over the camp, the pilots still unfamiliar with their new toys, so where exactly was safe?
His men were shouting, and he turned to see a lone Stormreader coming on a direct line for the greatshotters from behind. Some of his engineers were still working on the siege engines, as though
completing them would somehow give the huge weapons the ability to pluck those fleet little orthopters from the sky.
We were close
, he thought, and he saw the bomb released even as his wings flared. But he was wearing the heavy armour designed to protect a valuable artificer from harm, and as a result
he could barely manage a hop.
General Tynan noted that the Spider-kinden were already on the move, dispersing into individual groups and falling back eastwards – not exactly a rout but not an orderly
retreat either. He needed to give the order, but it stuck in his throat. This was the Second Army, the
Gears
, and the Gears did not stop for anything. That was the
point
.
He could observe the walls of Collegium through a glass. For the second time, the city seemed just an inch from his grasp.
He had ordered the Airborne into the sky, to do what they could, but there had been no battle in recent history where flying men had been able to match themselves against flying machines. His
own few orthopters had been destroyed within seconds of engaging the enemy.
‘Tynan!’
He spun round to see Mycella herself fighting her way through the panicking camp. She had the emaciated mercenary Morkaris and his Scorpions shouldering Wasps out of their way, and her chief of
camp, the Melisandyr, strode alongside her in gleaming plate armour, holding a shield aloft as though it would protect anyone from anything.
‘What are you still doing here?’ Tynan demanded.
‘You have to get clear. You have to order a retreat, Tynan!’ she shouted to him. To his shock, he detected real concern in her eyes: not for his army, or their chances of winning the
war, but solely for him.
And she was right, and he had known that truth for several minutes now, even as his men died.
‘Sound the retreat! Head east and regroup with the Spider-kinden!’
Instantly messengers and soldiers began spreading the word, the chain of command reasserting itself. It made him weep with frustration, but there was nothing else for it. He had the superior
land force, but half his artillery was smashed and the Collegiates could destroy the rest at their leisure as long as they controlled the air. Under the withering barrage of their bombing, an
attempt on the walls did not bear thinking about.
‘Come on,’ Mycella urged him. He saw she had a sword out as if to fight off the air assault by hand, and the impotence of the gesture touched him.