A yell from Kenem Posda was followed by a report of weapon fire bouncing off the boulders in front of the guardsmen.
Someone has flanked us
. Duncan turned around. Wafts of gun smoke hung in the cold air from a slope of grey rock to the rear of one of the destroyed towers. Defenders from the tower who had survived, or a patrol from the keep out in the canyon trails? He raised his carbine and squeezed off a handful of shots at the ledge where the Rodalians had taken position, a ratcheting sound from his ammunition drum as it turned, accompanying a painful thump of the butt against his shoulder. Kenem Posda and the other rear guards added their rifles to his fusillade. Duncan couldn’t see the defenders, but a return flurry of shots sounded their defiance. Hollow, dull little thuds.
Pistol shots
, Duncan realized. Somewhere along the line of Paetro’s harsh training routine, Duncan had become an authority on the weapons he had to protect his charge against.
When did that happen?
‘They’re dug in there as tight as ticks,’ shouted Paetro. ‘We need to close with them.’
He waved the flat of his palm to the right, sending Kenem Posda and the other guardsmen half-squatting, half-running towards the rise behind them. Paetro and Duncan opened fire with their carbines, keeping the mountain soldiers’ heads down, then moved to the left as Kenem and his comrade returned the favour. Bullets fleeted off the stone as Duncan sprinted, flecks of rock leaping off the boulders as he avoided their foe’s fire. He nearly slipped on a pile of loose pebbles while sprinting forward, recovering his balance to slide behind a sharp oblong rock shelf.
‘Cover,’ ordered Paetro, and Duncan just had time to raise his carbine and thump three more shots off against the cliffs where the Rodalians were hiding. He still couldn’t see their enemy, only the fume of gun smoke drifting across the rocks. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Kenem Posda advancing at speed, but no sign of the other guardsman. Had the soldier fallen? Duncan cursed this fight.
Just the same as the rebel ambush when we marched into Northhaven
. How come everyone always seemed able to see Duncan Landor well enough to shoot at him, but his enemies were only ever ghosts, barely visible from gun flash and powder trace? That didn’t seem like any kind of battlefield to him.
It’s hardly fair
.
‘Get to the shelter of what’s left of the keep,’ ordered Paetro. Duncan could hardly hear the hoary old soldier’s commands. Had the rifle shots left him deafened? No, it was the wind building up around them. The howl slipping into a roar.
Duncan nodded. A flurry of shots from their right, half-heard in the gale, Kenem grabbing the Rodalians’ attention.
‘Move!’
Duncan followed the veteran, dodging right and left as he tried to stay as low as possible while maintaining momentum, the ricochet of rounds against rock indication enough the Rodalians still had him well-marked. Paetro leapt over a round ridge of broken stone wall jutting out, Duncan fast behind him. The keep wall had been two feet-thick of solid rock; Duncan crossed it like it was hardly there. He landed on a paved interior still warm to the touch from the bombardment that had ruined it, the surface littered with fist-sized shards of half melted stone. There was the splintered wooden hatch Little Aldro had reported, exposing a spiral staircase to the caravan trails below. Perhaps this had been a customs post once, helping halt the smugglers’ trade with the capital? That explained why the Rodalians were trying to sting him with pistols rather than rifles. These weren’t soldiers they faced, but whatever the local equivalent of the Northhaven district police was. Shots rang off what was left of the keep’s splintered buttress.
But gut-shot by a revenue officer is still gut-shot and every bit as dead
.
Paetro crouched behind the keep’s wall and opened a side pouch on his knapsack, removing a pair of ugly-looking stick grenades . . . a spiked cylindrical iron weight atop a wooden handle. He tossed one to Duncan, jerked a thumb towards the slope where the Rodalians had taken cover and raised three fingers.
Two. One.
Duncan yanked the pull-cord out from the bottom of the handle, knelt up and hurled the heavy thing spinning towards the slope, crossing the path of Paetro’s grenade mid-air. Duncan ducked down and let the intense heat of the two explosions arc over the keep’s remains. He risked a glance over the ruined keep wall and saw a screen of smoke half-hiding the rockfall that had resulted. No more pistol shots. But were the defenders dead or had they moved away before—? Someone called behind the keep. It was Charia, vaulting over the boulders with her rifle.
‘They’re dead and buried,’ barked Paetro. ‘You’re clear. Mark your targets again.’
Charia stopped short of the wall and held up her wind gauge. Two of the sails were missing and the third was ripped to shreds. ‘It was gusting at well over a hundred miles an hour through the canyon when my gauge was torn apart. Might as well be shooting underwater for all the range I have.’
Paetro looked dumbfounded. ‘But the winds weren’t more than thirty when we arrived?’
Duncan thought of the empty terraces on the city opposite. Deserted now.
What do they know that we don’t?
Kenem Posda crossed warily over to them, keeping his carbine pointed in the direction of the slope sealed by their grenades. ‘Do you hear that noise? What the hell is it? It sounds like a train.’
There
was
something pounding in the distance. Duncan tried to listen. A thump-thump-thump. Like a train. Or perhaps a distant anvil being worked by the gods’ own hammer.
‘It can’t be cannon fire?’ said Charia. ‘There isn’t artillery large enough to make that noise.’
‘I think that’s wind,’ said Duncan. ‘Pounding against the mountains.’
‘Cannon fire,’ said Paetro. He pointed towards the twin mountains. ‘That’s what’s wrong. There’s no more fire from the city up there. Hadra-Hareer’s silent. They’ve withdrawn their batteries from the slopes.’
Duncan turned.
The Caller
emerged from behind the peaks of Hadra, but she was flying at a strange angle, struggling, her main engines burning so bright she might have been a foundry furnace, engine pods along her hull at full-burn as they attempted to augment the lift of the vessel’s anti-gravity stones. Suddenly one of the engine pods tore away, flying high into the air as though an invisible entity was pulling legs off a spider and
The Caller
was the victim in question. The Imperium’s massive battery ship was quickly being reduced to the status of a leaf in a hurricane, even as she was still being buzzed by the skyguard’s flying wings. The enemy fighters rode the whipping gusts, an angry mob of birds emptying their wing guns into the hull of
The Caller
, carrion crows pecking at a dying corpse. It was as though the Rodalian pilots were joined with the wind, harnessing the hurricane’s flow, using it to rotate and turn at velocities far beyond the power of their simple engines, ripping apart the helos left twisting helplessly in the air. Anything the unnatural hurricane wasn’t killing in the sky the Rodalian pilots picked from the air as their prey. Rodal’s flying wings pressed their attack even as the wind gripped
The Caller
and rolled her sideways in the air, engine pods snapping off like seeds in a gale before the battery ship’s bulk struck Hadra’s jagged slopes. She was rent by explosions and flashes of light that left Duncan half-blinded for a second. As the smoke was snatched by the cyclone, Duncan saw their vessel had been torn in two. The dragon-nosed bridge spun helplessly detached, spilling crew and sailors into the sky while the half with the engine continued to be wracked by detonations. Shells that should have been destined for her massive turret guns fed the main engine’s explosions. She had become a giant steel firework, spinning in the air, useless and deadly only to herself.
Screams sounded from the Yarl Heights’ ledge, drawing Duncan’s eyes away from the insane sight of a Vandian warship torn apart by nature. Sharpshooters sprinted back towards the perceived safety of the slopes, fleeing the yawning canyon gap. They were pursued by a wall of dust and rubble and rock whipping out of the valley, a hurricane’s worth of natural shrapnel burning at their skin, tearing at their uniforms.
‘They’ve summoned their mountain spirits,’ moaned Kenem Posda. ‘Curse me for a fool for mocking you, Duncan of Weyland. For mocking the barbarians’ damn demons of the wind.’
‘Over here!’ yelled Duncan. He could no longer hear the sprinting guardsmen’s screams, the unholy thumping from the mountain range overwhelming mere mortal howls.
‘Arria!’ yelled the female sharpshooter, entreating her sister to run faster. ‘Arria!’
Arria Wyon emerged from the cloud of boiling rubble, her thin body shielded by Little Aldro’s massive bulk, both trying to put enough distance between themselves and the gale to survive. They had taken perhaps five steps when they were pulled into the sky as though they had discovered the secret of levitation. Clutched by the wind they turned and spiralled, feet treading the air without effect until a side current caught them and they left Duncan’s sight as fast as rockets fired from a helo.
Duncan and Kenem pulled Charia back into the shattered keep, the woman wailing in agony and rage for her lost sister.
‘Down here,’ barked Paetro. He yanked out the wooden door’s remains, exposing the staircase to the trails. The four of them almost fell down its stone steps, following corkscrew turns, seeking any burrow to escape the Rodalian spirits’ terrible vengeance crashing above them. Halfway down the stairs they came to an opening. It led into a chamber carved out of the canyon stone. Duncan sparked a wall-mounted oil lamp into life. It was a low-roofed oblong storage room, crates and rope-secured bundles piled against one wall. Half stumbling, the four of them pushed into the store, pursued by an eerie whistling rising and falling in the staircase. The trail below had been connected to the mesa top by the keep’s destruction, dust from below flowing up past them. Duncan and the others made a wall across the doorway by shifting the stores, leaving enough of a gap that they wouldn’t suffocate in their makeshift shelter. Duncan was as good company as the others while they rode out the storm, sitting morosely in the gloom for hours. Kenem muttered every few minutes. ‘Never seen anything like that. Never.’ Charia hardly speaking, just sobbing intermittently while clutching her long rifle tight as though planning revenge against the winds. Paetro sat cross-legged, scratching at his bald scalp, as grim and silent as a slab of granite.
As grim as only total failure can be
. They had come here to take a city and free Lady Cassandra, and instead lost almost quarter of their army in a single morning.
A WAR FOR THE LAND MASTER
Willow was tired and not just from her pregnancy. She knew the job she had accepted from Jacob – acting as coordinator between the exiles and their Rodalian hosts in the matter of Weyland’s refugees – was a sop to distract Willow from her worries over Carter and keep her out of old man Carnehan’s hair.
But the duties are real enough
. More people arriving every week. Stories of starvation and war and bandits on the road. As exhausting to hear the refugees’ tales as the almost endless work of feeding and housing them. Even more so given she seemed to be continually hungry, drowsy and flushed hot. Attending HadraHareer’s council chamber inside the Golden Well with Prince Owen, Jacob Carnehan, Nima Tash and a handful of trusted Rodalian and rebel advisers, soldiers and politicians, was an extra interruption she didn’t need today. Two high-ranking military officers Willow hadn’t recognized were introduced as Skyguard Marshal Samden Stol and Land Master Namdak Galasang. They both regarded Willow with suspicion when Nima informed the chamber who she was. Samden Stol appeared as ancient, thin and light as the winds his skyguard pilots rode, although he covered up his age – quite literally – with a large black bear-fur trimmed flying coat. Namdak Galasang needed no coat to make him appear bulkier. Younger than the commander of the Rodalian Skyguard by about half the old officer’s years, Galasang could have been a menhir carved out of the mountainside, a golem’s life-spark breathed into the substantial frame that filled his brown uniform.
I wonder if he became general of their ground forces by simply beating every other contender to death with his fists? He looks mean enough.
And his fists large enough for the job.
One man was notable for his absence. But finally Jacob Carnehan arrived, flanked by two grey-uniformed soldiers who joined the Rodalian council guards at the chamber’s entrance.
Nima Tash regarded the pastor with impatience. ‘You are late.’ ‘I’ve been inspecting the Guild of Radiomen’s hold on Hadra’s slopes,’ said Jacob. ‘It’s intact, thank the Lord . . . we’re going to need to keep it open to signal the wind temples. Pray up another storm to break a storm. Sending skyguard pilots out as courier crows is too slow. Risky, as well. Maybe taking a bullet in a dogfight with the Vandians.’
‘It is your presence here that called these Vandian invaders down on us,’ accused Skyguard Marshal Stol.
‘Granting Prince Owen political asylum in Rodal was my decision,’ said Nima Tash.
‘And that decision made clouded by grief over your father’s death.’
‘My father’s
murder
. A family has its honour, but so must a nation. The Imperium murdered our leader; butchered its way across the territory of our ally, Weyland. Then it flew to our capital to pillage Rodal like a band of brigands, intending to assassinate guests under our protection.’
‘A wise man finds a lost yak and returns it
before
he’s branded as a rustler.’
Willow could suffer his argument in silence no more. ‘The Lanca tolerates no slavery inside its borders. These are human beings you talk of, not stray cattle.’
Stol shook his head wearily. ‘Have you run out of refugees to mollycoddle? Why are you even here, girl?’
‘Because she is one of our honoured guests,’ said Nima. ‘And because she can speak of these Vandians and their schemes better than any Rodalian. Willow Landor was a slave of the Imperium. Taken from Northhaven and forced to work within its mines. She should be dead, but she is alive. The winds of fate have blessed her.’
Willow rubbed her swollen belly.
I don’t feel particularly blessed.
‘Then this is
your
war,’ said Stol.
She stared angrily at the old man, so confident of his certainties. ‘No, it’s a tide looking to drown me. And the tide is coming in for everyone here.’
‘How are our Weylander guests after the attack?’ asked Nima.
‘Scared,’ said Willow.
Terrified would be a better word.
‘They thought they had escaped the war back home.’
‘We have not yet seen war,’ growled Land Master Namdak Galasang. ‘The Vandians are arrogant. They flew in expecting an easy victory. We gave them a well-deserved slap and they recoiled in shock. I think they are not much used to it. They will come at Hadra-Hareer again.’
‘On that much we agree,’ said Stol. ‘My scouts report ground forces massing along the Weyland border. These Vandians have armoured fighting vehicles as large as steel keeps on tracks. And the regiments of our so-called
allies
in Weyland swell their numbers.’
‘King Marcus’ regiments,’ said Owen.
‘The distinction is lost upon me. You claim to be the rightful heir to Weyland . . . will these soldiers obey you and return to barracks? No. They wish to remove your head with a sabre and brandish it on a traitor’s spike outside your royal palace. You speak of a disputed throne across the border. It matters nothing to me which of my neighbour’s prefectures the hostile regiments hail from. Only that their rifles and lances remain pointed at my homeland.’
‘The Weylanders here fought bravely side by side with us during the attack,’ said Nima.
‘And thousands more Weylanders are now fleeing into our mountains,’ said Stol. ‘Women, children and farmers. Will they be as brave under fire?’
Nima Tash sighed and looked at Jacob. ‘This is true. Since we repulsed the attack on the capital, King Marcus and his Vandian butchers have redoubled their ravages against the north. Many loyal to your parliament’s cause are escaping burnt farms and towns and escaping into Rodal.’
‘The bloody nose the enemy got here encouraged a lot of Weylanders to take their rifles down from above their fireplaces. Send a few bullets flying towards Bad Marcus’ over-extended supply lines. That’s a fine thing by my reckoning.’
‘But there are so many refugees,’ said Nima. ‘How are we to cope?’
‘You think that’s an accident?’ said Jacob. ‘Every hungry mouth Marcus and Vandia drive out of Lowharl, Gareshire and Havenharl and across into Rodal places an extra strain on your famine stores. When you’re planning a siege, this is just the song your band plays to warm up the dance.’
Nima stood up and paced the table’s length. ‘I do not find such music to my taste. I ask again. How is Rodal to cope?’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ said Jacob. ‘Send the soldiers from every parliamentarian regiment that is still half-constituted up to Hadra-Hareer. Fighters we can use. Fighters we can afford to feed. Everyone else, you ship east along the rivers and into Hellin.’
Prince Owen practically leapt out of his chair. ‘Hellin! Bogs and swamps and fever will claim half our people before they see out a week.’
‘It is true,’ warned Nima. ‘There are legends of the Nijumeti hordes who tried to invade Hellin. Once a decade thousands of ancient desiccated corpses rise out of the quicksand as a warning to the nomads’ descendants, before being swallowed and drowned anew.’
‘If Hellin’s not to the refugees’ taste, our folks can sail south down the Broadaxe into Tresterer,’ said Jacob. ‘Tresterer’s a member of the Lanca. They won’t honour the league’s pact of defence and come to our aid. Let Tresterer feed our Weylanders on their own soil. It’ll make their king in Navon feel less guilty about being a fat, useless coward.’
‘I cannot allow this,’ said Prince Owen. ‘How many of my people will survive such a journey?’
‘More than will survive if they stay in the north. And allowing doesn’t come into it.’
‘They are Weylanders! They support our cause.’
‘I’d say that the ones laying low in Havenharl’s wilds, bushwhacking southern supply trains . . . they’re our supporters. The ones taking orders from the couriers we slip south, they’re our supporters. The ones tossing burning torches on to thatch where the Army of the Boles’ looters are billeted, they’re our supporters. But the ones retreating into Rodal? They’re just scared civilians looking to save their own skins.’
‘We have to help them,’ pleaded Willow. The thought of her old friends and neighbours dying on the road and in the wilderness, harried by her father’s and brother’s troops made her feel sick to the core.
‘And how would you do that?’ asked Jacob. ‘Shepherd them inside Hadra-Hareer? Have them starve fifty to a requisitioned room while Bad Marcus and the Vandians shell the capital’s slopes? Dirty and thirsty, dying of dysentery until even rat meat is a delicacy they’d gladly murder their neighbour over. Sieges are no place for civilians. I’d take my chances chasing hares and wood pigeons in the wilds every time. There’s nothing here for our people but a hard, bloody pounding.’
‘And the same for my people,’ growled Skyguard Marshal Stol.
‘Difference is, it’s your land. You’re the Walls of the World. Rodal: nobody ever forced you to cling to these mountains. You’ve been here millennia, growing harder and meaner every generation. Slaughtering nomads and raiders and everyone who ever tried to invade. I’m just asking you to slaughter one more.’
‘Where we are now; we hardly have a choice,’ said Nima.
‘No,’ said Jacob. Willow thought she detected a hint of genuine sorrow in the pastor’s voice. ‘When wolves gather and attack, there never is. Fight or get eaten. That’s your choice.’
Or withdraw
. Willow shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden seat.
How much better to be a traveller. Never stopping. Following the passage of the sun across Pellas.
Able to leave every squabble and feud of those tied to the soil; avoid the fight by simply setting a fresh direction and never looking back.
Lord, I wish that was me and Carter, now.
‘Yes, we are the Walls of the World. It is the burden hardest to bear when the wolves are coming,’ said Nima. ‘Marshal, Land Master, you have the city’s defences.’
The two officers stood and bowed towards her. ‘We serve,’ said Namdak Galasang.
‘The skyguard flies with the spirits and our duty,’ responded the old officer, his voice tired but firm.
‘See to the city’s grain stores,’ Nima ordered the city officials. ‘Ensure the reservoirs below the Lake of Clouds run full and clean. And clear every rockfall across the Yarl Trails. If there is to be a siege, we will need every narrow, minor mule-track open to smuggle fresh supplies in.’
The discussion switched to how the Land Master’s forces should be used to defend against ground attacks, fighting in coordination with the skyguard. What armies King Marcus and his Vandian allies had mustered to throw against Rodal’s capital. The lessons the rebel troops had learnt from the fall of Midsburg. Willow found herself almost drifting asleep.
I’m eating, sleeping . . . living for two. And what world is my child is going to be born into?
When the council meeting ended, Willow pinned Jacob Carnehan down before he could disappear. ‘Have you heard anything from Carter or Sariel yet?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Shouldn’t their pilot have returned by now and reported their safe delivery to the hinterlands of Arak-natikh?’
‘Maybe so,’ said Jacob. ‘But you don’t need to worry.’
He said it with such conviction that Willow almost believed him. That was another change in Jacob Carnehan. Not an ounce of uncertainty or doubt in anything he said or did.
But I have enough for us both.
‘How can you say that?’
‘I travelled across half the world alongside Sariel. Faced things I can hardly describe. It’ll take more than a misplaced transport aircraft to sink that old devil. I trust him with Carter’s life. And they’re as well off where they are as here, with the Vandians knocking on the door.’
Please let that be true. That one thing.
‘You told me once that I was to act as your conscience. You can’t just abandon our people fleeing the civil war in Weyland.’
Jacob shook his head. ‘The best way to help them is to divert the usurper and his Vandian friends’ forces. Every royalist soldier laying siege to Hadra-Hareer is a soldier too busy to hang and shoot northern deserters.’
‘What are you becoming?’
‘What I need to be, Willow. To win.’
‘We’re not winning here,’ said Willow, trying not to sob. ‘Think of everything we’ve already lost.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Jacob. ‘I go to sleep and every night I’m standing by the soil of Mary’s grave in Northhaven, surrounded by the bodies of half the town; parishioners I knew and loved, all planted in the ground by the murdering slavers. And when I’m not there, I’m back on the dark soil of that hell-sent imperial stratovolcano, crunching through the bones of every slave who died as a prisoner.’
‘We should have never taken refuge in the mountains.’
We should have fled and kept on going
.
‘This isn’t a refuge,’ growled Jacob, seizing Willow by the arms. ‘This is an anvil. This is where Bad Marcus and the Imperium will be beaten with a hammer, smashed again and again until they break.’
‘How are you different from Bad Marcus?’
How am I different from any other Landor?
‘I intend to stand over the usurper’s grave,’ said Jacob. ‘That’s all the difference in the world.’
‘You don’t need a conscience,’ said Willow, freeing herself from his grasp. ‘You need a soul.’
Jacob called out to her, but she ignored him. Willow made to leave the council chamber, almost escaping it, when Prince Owen intercepted her on the way out. ‘You look like you need a rest, Willow.’
‘I won’t find one yet. I need to see to our people inside the Shades Chamber,’ said Willow. ‘That’s where the new arrivals are being lodged. I might not be able to help everyone fleeing the war, but I can help the ones we’ve already taken in.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Prince Owen. He glanced with hostility towards Jacob. The prince’s cane and limp were his reminder of the brutal manner in which Carter’s father had assumed control of the army after the rout at Midsburg. ‘You should not be working such long hours, not in your—’ he indicated her belly.
Willow couldn’t help but cling to her duty’s numerous distractions.
A chance to forget the winds of war buffeting against our mountainous haven. To forget the shame of what my family has done, is still doing, back home. I would have gone crazy, dragging my weight around the city with nothing to do but worry and pray Carter’s still alive. Praying every night, he’s not being roasted on a nomad’s spit or buried in the ground and used for spear practice.