The boy groom yanked out his the dogs’ pickets and shouted for his team to flee. Arrows whined weirdly at him, piercing him through many times. His commands cut off. He blinked, blood poured from his mouth and he drew in a retching gasp that could not fill his punctured lungs. The sled jerked forward and he fell backwards, dead before his head touched the snow. His father yelled, sprinting for him. Men looked to the creatures coming at them from both sides. The dogs of the other two teams barked and whined, yanking fruitlessly at their tethers, biting each other in fear.
“Hold the line!” shouted Bannord. “Keep your nerve!”
The party disintegrated into disorder. They scattered, dodging between ice warriors advancing from behind.
“Get into the cover!” shouted Bannord, hurling himself into the doorway sheltering Darrasind and Ilona. The alchemist’s boy was there with them, looking out. Further back, where the room it abruptly stopped, two Ishamalani sailors crouched.
“Get the fuck down!” bellowed Bannord at the alchemist’s boy. He grabbed him by the parka hood and yanked him back. Half a second later, a spear of ice roared into the outside wall and exploded with a gush of escaping steam.
“Gods fucking fuck it!” Bannord shouted. He leaned round the door jamb and fired his ironlock. He hit an ice creature square in the head. It strode on two steps, but its head wobbled and shattered. It toppled forward, boiling water spilling from its core.
“Reload this!” said Bannord. He plucked a bag of shot from round his neck and shoved it at Ilona along with the rifle.
Ice creatures chased down fleeing men, spearing them as boys spear frogs. The sled with the dead groom’s blood on it bounced past, dogs yelping in panic. Antoninan’s head groom grappled with his own drays, trying to stop them from fleeing while still attached to the sled. He cut them loose one by one, and they ran off, skidding in their panic. Those still in traces tossed leapt and tugged, snarling and snapping. For all the man’s experience, there was only so much he could do to control a four hundred pound dog, and he was flung to one side as one slammed into him. The remaining dogs tried to run, yanking each other in opposite directions before their leader got them going, but they charged right at three of the ice creatures, and were speared to their deaths in a flurry of sickening blows. The third team were calmer, held in check by Valatrice’s presence as Antoninan hurried from dog to dog cutting their harnesses while Valatrice gnawed at the leather of his own.
“One, two, three, four,” counted Bannord. His eyes darted about, each glance revealing a new horror. In the doorway opposite, Kolskwin shattered the arm of a creature trying to gain entrance to his building only to fall back screaming as boiling water jetted into his eyes. A bullet shot from the room, punched right through the construct, but it was not hindered. The water froze over the hole in its back and in its stump, and it continued methodically jabbing with its spear. “Eighteen,” finished Bannord. “I count eighteen.”
“Seventeen,” said Ardovani. He crouched behind Bannord, and took aim with his strange gun, shooting out a roaring beam of yellow energy. An ice construct vanished in a pillar of steam.
“Can I have one of those?” said Bannord.
“Alas, it is a prototype, and cost a great deal of silver,” said Ardovani. “I did offer the plans to the Karsan army, but it was outside their budget.”
“Fuck that, I’ll pay for one myself,” said Bannord.
“Twenty thousand for the raw materials only,” said Ardovani apologetically. “Then there are the preparations that must be applied, alchemist’s fees, and my time.” He snapped off another shot, the crystals fitted to the length of the odd barrels glaring with searing light.
“Maybe not then,” said Bannord. “I need to get my men in order. Cover me.”
The situation was deteriorating rapidly. The party was divided, beset at every place, the remaining marines ineffectually scattered among them. He held out his hand. “My ironlock, trooper.”
“Sir,” said Ilona, and shoved it into his hand.
“I’m going to help the others,” he said quickly. “Get ready for my orders.”
Bannord kept his head down, and dived out from behind the doorway. His men were scattered about. That, he thought ruefully, is the bloody problem with ambushes. Arrows of steaming ice sped at him, narrowly missing his head. Another beam of magical power blasted so close it singed his hair as he ran for the monster that had blinded Kolskwin. The one-armed creature exploded, and Bannord threw himself forward, skidding on the slick surface of the floor into the room. There were four of his marines inside, and three others—Ullfider the antiquarian and two sailors. One marine lay on the floor, the spear that had killed him melting quickly. His ironlock was clutched across his chest defensively, mangled into scrap. Kolskwin writhed in agony at the back with handfuls of snow clamped to his face. Only Timmion and Fedrion remained unhurt.
“Lieutenant!” Fedrion said. “What are we going to do?” He was close to losing his courage, his face whiter than the snow.
Bannord belted him around the head. “Get your pissing act together. We’re going to have to fight our way out, or we’re all going to die.”
Fedrion rubbed his ear. “Yes sir, sorry sir.”
“We’re split, we need to get together, drive them back with a fusillade, alright? They’re not proof against our weapons. We can stop them, if we concentrate our fire.”
“Yes sir!” they said in unison.
“Any of you others armed?” said Bannord. The Ishmalani patted their knives, no good. But the antiquarian took out a long, finely made ironlock revolver.
“This do?” he said.
“More or less,” said Bannord. “One of you Ishamalani take Kolskwin’s gun. The other take my revolver.”
They looked at each other.
“It is forbidden,” one said. “We are not permitted firearms, by the laws of the One, and the laws of Ruthnia.”
“Fine. Die then.”
That put their religious bans into perspective. One of them snatched up the rifle and joined the others. Bannord held out his pistol to the other. He hesitantly took it.
“That’s better. Listen. We’ll all open fire. The others should get the idea, I hope. Keep them off Ardovani; he’s got the best weapon. It will not take them long to figure that out. We ready?”
They nodded.
“Right then, that fucker there,” he said, pointing to a construct with a crest of upright icicles for hair, “bring him down.”
The five of them trained their guns on the construct bearing down on Ardovani’s position. The magister was occupied with another, and ignorant of its approach. He fired his gun, his energy beam cutting a leg from under a warrior, sending it crashing to the ground.
Ilona and Darrasind fired from behind Ardovani at the monster Bannord had picked out, but it did not slow. The creature raised its hand. From its palm issued a gout of steam that solidified into a mass of spiked ice, partly blocking the door around Ardovani. The magister scrambled backwards. Bannord now understood what had happened to Haik’s vessel.
“On my mark, aim, fire!” Bannord shouted.
Five ironlock guns spoke, shooting out bullets of glimmer. The barrels were rifled, a recent innovation, but the bullets remained large in order to generate a sufficient charge from the iron pin of the hammer penetrating their silver skin. They smashed into the back of the construct en masse, breaking it to pieces. A sheet of hot water poured from inside, a mighty blast of steam roaring from the back and turning to white clouds of ice on the cold air. The construct fell to its knees, and toppled sideways, dead.
“Reload!” Bannord shouted. Timmion had his bullet slotted in through the breach quickly, then helped the Ishamalan do the same. Bannord made himself two promises. Firstly, he would petition the admiralty to arm the Maritime Regiment with self-loading carbines like the sauraliers carried. Secondly, he would save enough to get Ardovani to make him one of those devices. If he had to steal the money, he would.
/> The men sounded off their readiness.
“Aim!” Bannord shouted. “Fire!”
Another round of bullets cracked out, demolishing a construct attacking Trassan’s position. When it fell, the engineer had his men rush out and reinforce Ardovani. An ice warrior soared overhead, spinning helplessly into a high wall where it exploded, quickly followed by another. Vols’ work.
Things were turning their way. Bannord counted only seven of the constructs. “Come on,” he said, and exited the building.
He stepped out, right into the path of a ice warrior. It raised its spear. Bannord fumbled his gun, his shot going wide. He backed away, drawing his sword, but then Valatrice was there. Howling chillingly, he and one of his pack mates leapt at the warrior, knocking it from its feet and sending it crashing into the wall. Its shoulder burst. It attempted to get up unsuccessfully, collapsing back into the wall, feet peddling uselessly at the floor. The rest of Bannord’s small unit came out of the building, backed off to a safe distance and filled the construct full of bullets. The warrior collapsed into its own steaming heart. Its magic disrupted, it melted away to nothing.
Bullets sped in from every direction at one of the last creatures, breaking it open so that it exploded outwards with immense force.
“Where shall I put these?” called Vols. Bannord found him, a hundred yards away. He held his hands over his head. Three of the constructs floated helplessly over the street, unable to move.
Bannord grinned triumphantly but it died quickly. There were bodies everywhere of men and dogs. Antoninan’s draymaster wept over the body of his son. Red flowers bloomed on beds of white snow.
“Good job Bannord,” said Trassan.
“Not good enough,” said Bannord. “That cost us dearly.”
“Sir!” Timmion spoke. “We’re three marines dead. Five others. Antoninan’s lost half his dogs, and Kolskwin...” he swallowed. “Kolskwin’s blind sir. Cooked his eyes in his head.”
Kolskwin’s screams attested to the pain of that.
Bannord spat into the ice. “Have him remain here. All civilians too. I want you all in a building. Darrasind, Aretimus. You stay on guard. Timmion, get Ranost and help round up the dogs.”
“Sir.”
“I assume we are going further?” Bannord asked Trassan.
“You assume right,” said Trassan shakily.
They returned to the corridor, ready for attack, but nothing more came against them—Trassan, Vols, Ardovani, Bannord, and Ullfider, who refused to be left behind. Antoninan would not speak with them, but went about furiously seeing to his animals, thereafter setting off in pursuit of the fleeing sledge. His ire increased when Valatrice declined to be harnessed again or to help, but insisted on going with the party down the tunnel.
“This wonder I have fought for,” he said in his perfect speech. “My packmates will return. In the meantime, I will see beyond the tunnel for myself.”
The corridor’s walls moved with the play of light. No cavities remained to show where the ice creatures had come from and the constructs themselves had melted completely away.
The tunnel was not long, and soon they found themselves in a vast, spherical room at the centre of which was a platform of Morfaan steel mounting a freestanding, circular portal also of Morfaan steel, though otherwise very much like the gate of ice they had come through.
Dozens of doors led off the room. A gallery ran round halfway up the wall, more leading off that. Ullfider hurried to these while the others approached the gate.
“It is a gate,” said Ardovani. “Can you sense the magic?”
Trassan could. He could smell it. It numbed his teeth and made his spit taste of metal.
Vols approached. He put his hand against it and nodded. “It is a gate. This whole place bends the laws of time and space, making accommodation for the city and this room. But beyond this door, beyond this door...” He looked up at it. “Here lies another world,” he said wonderingly. He pressed his face against it and shut his eyes. “I can see it. A world of ash and fire, dark.”
At that moment Ullfider came out excitedly from one of the rooms, hobbling as fast as his aged legs would allow. “Goodfellow Kressind!” He swallowed hard, he was so excited he could barely speak. “This room, it is crammed floor to ceiling with intact Morfaan devices.”
The spell of the gate was broken. Trassan rushed past the antiquarian into the room he had come out of.
Inside were hexagonal alcoves, like the cells in a hive. Sheets of thin foil covered them over. Ullfider had ripped a number open recklessly. Inside each cell was a pristine artefact. Trassan pulled out a musical instrument, then some kind of weapon, and other devices of featureless steel that hummed and clicked when touched. Ullfider followed Trassan back into the room, practically dancing with excitement. Trassan turned round and round giddily. There were dozens of the cells.
“The other rooms?”
Ullfider’s grin nearly split his face.
In the next were vehicles parked in rows, sophisticated versions of the charabancs colonising the streets of the Hundred. In another, flat discs were stacked in neat rows. In another, endless shelves of trays containing Morfaan silver, the enigmatic beads discovered at every ancient site the creatures had inhabited. Trembling, Trassan ran down the length of the racks. Hundreds of trays, thousands of beads. But they were not what he was looking for. At the far end, in a cell of its own, was a small device the size of a travelling bag. It consisted of a flat deck to the front inset with a solitary hole big enough to accommodate the tip of a finger. From the rear rose a pair of elegant metal horns, seamlessly integrated with the deck, between which spread an interlocking web of metal strands of varying thickness. He picked it up, hardly believing his luck. It let out a musical chime when touched. A film of light formed in the space between the wires. Tonal sounds sang from it.
Hesitantly, Trassan reached for the nearest tray of silver. It pulled out smoothly, resting on invisible runners of force. At random, he selected a bead.
Bannord burst through the door, lively and bright eyed.
“Trassan!” shouted Bannord, his and Trassan’s animosity forgotten. “This place is full of material. Every room, both levels are stuffed from floor to ceiling. This place must be some kind of store, and it is pristine.”
Trassan withdrew his hand from the tray and pocketed the bead.
“Strip it,” said Trassan. “Strip it all. I want it all in the ship, in the hold, by this time tomorrow. Someone get Antoninan to calm down, we’re going to need his dogs.”
“I shall speak with him,” rumbled Valatrice. “He will not go against me.”
“What’s that?” asked Bannord, nodding at the device as Trassan left the bead chamber.
“I don’t know,” said Trassan with a forced smile. He opened his satchel and placed it inside. “Who knows what half these artefacts do? Quickly now everyone, get this back to the ship! If we must leave, then we shall carry away the treasures of the ancient world!”
“It must be catalogued, sketched in situ before we move it. We shall miss the subtler story if we ransack the building!” said Ullfider in anguish.
“Very well,” said Trassan. “Begin your sketches. We’ll make notations of where everything came from, and box it up by room. Don’t worry Ullifder, I won’t let us miss unlocking the power of the Morfaan because I dislike bookkeeping.”
Ullfider was mollified. “I shall send to the ship for assistance.”
“We’ll be sending for a lot more than that,” said Trassan. Excited shouts came from every room, dispelling the expedition’s fear.
“Vols! What of the gate? Can you open it?” he asked, imagination already buzzing at what else may be on the far side.
Vols stepped back from the portal, shaking his hands out with a worrisome expression. “I suggest we do not, and that we hurry in clearing the chambers,” he said slowly. “There is something on the other side of this door, it has noticed us, and it desires greatly to come throu
gh.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Duel
THERE WERE FAR too many people in the Meadow to fit around the duelling ground. Few would see the fight, but that didn’t seem to worry them. For the population of Perus the duel was an opportunity for an impromptu holiday.
The mist had returned, clinging to the edges of the duelling ground. Past its dank confines a late spring day warmed Perus, and the sun turned the mist a flat, headachey gold. Outside the clearing the usual raucousness that accompanies large gatherings had set to, inside it hush prevailed. The barkers and salesfolk were kept away from the lords and ladies of Perus. Only the wealthy were permitted in, although the trees about were full of less wealthy spectators. It was all so genteel, like a stilted garden party or a revel at a modest wedding. Bizarre to think, Garten thought, that someone might very soon be dead in the centre of it.
Around the ground men and women of high station talked quietly about swordplay and strategy and duels they had witnessed to impress their companions. All of it was a sham, the opinions of armchair-warriors. There were one or two Garten saw that might have conceivably fought, but these days real duels were rare. It had become the norm for people like Asteria to fight other professionals. Matters of honour were saved for the courts and settled with money. As Garten’s father Gelbion had once dryly remarked, it was less messy that way.
Packed clay covered with graded sand made the finest bouting circle Garten had ever seen. He stared at it dumbly, suffering from a lingering sense of unreality. Images of the carnage at the Palace superimposed themselves on the scene. His sword dragged at his hip. It had gone from an extension of his arm to an alien limb, keen to force him to its deadly purpose. He needed time to acclimatise himself to his new status of killer, yet here he was, about to fight again, seconding for a creature out of myth. The affair was absurd.
On the far side of the circle Josanad stripped down to his shirt and went through a series of complicated stretches, his subsidiary arms hidden away. The president of the match and his assistants conferred on the paved area to one side of the circle. A pallid, worried looking physic waited in a chair under a parasol, even though there was no sun. A Guider in full regalia waited solemnly a few feet further on. Near him was a young man with a sword, surrounded by women that he was too nervous to flirt with. Asteria chose her seconds on the basis of who pleased her most in the bedchamber, it was rumoured. By the look of the boy Garten could believe it. He was no swordsman. Youthful arrogance was melting under the heat of the moment, exposing inadequate ability. The boy caught his eye and nodded at him. Garten returned the gesture then looked elsewhere.
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