A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2)

by Sales, Ian

  As the pinnace yawed about and sped away from Tempest, Rinharte peered out of the scuttle by the boatswain’s seat. Dear Lords. More than two-thirds of Tempest’s hull was battered and rent with great gashes. She was a wreck. Only the forward section of the hull appeared whole and undamaged.

  “How did you know, Garrin?” she asked quietly.

  He stood beside her, bent over and peering out of the scuttle. His head was beside hers.

  “Intercepted a signal from Szhen,” he explained. “You went and used your gun, didn’t you? That’d make you a target and I knew that old bucket wouldn’t take much punishment.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He was silent a moment. She glanced at him and saw that her obvious sincerity had taken him by surprise. It was momentary. His grin returned.

  “Mind you,” he said, “I’ll get a right whipping when we land. I took the boats without permission.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ormuz waited with a dozen provosts in a gangway on a lower deck. He had his hand to the hilt of his sword. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across the pommel in an attempt to not think on what was about to happen. It was impossible.

  Any moment soon, Vengeful would ram one of the enemy’s cruisers. Ormuz had never learnt her name. It was unimportant. He refused to consult his watch. The Admiral had given him sufficient time to gather a boarding-party—if twelve rateds with billy-clubs, and a nervous young Provost-Aboard could be called such. But Ormuz had no idea how much time remained.

  “Soon, now, my lord,” said Lieutenant Pulisz, the Provost-Aboard.

  Ormuz turned to him. He was no more than a handful of years older than Ormuz, with pale hair and a round open face which seemed inappropriate given his role as the battlecruiser’s chief policeman. The rateds fit the stereotype better: they either resembled reformed criminals, or beefy constables not above breaking heads to keep the peace.

  “I expect so,” Ormuz said.

  Somewhere, the sound of dripping water echoed from the passage’s metal bulkheads, an eerie hollow sound. It smelled down here in the lower decks, an industrial stink of machinery and body odour, like a cross between a factory and a dormitory. Vengeful was a clean ship, her decks scrubbed, her brasses bright, her steel painted… but not everywhere. And not down here.

  Ormuz opened his mouth to make some comment to Pulisz —

  The deck flexed beneath his feet.

  A shattering roar ripped open a stretch of bulkhead some fifteen feet way. A pressure wave knocked Ormuz and the others to the ground.

  The smell of burnt metal filled the air. Fine soot swirled cloudily about the lights.

  Ormuz scrambled to his feet. He could hear only muffled bangs and screeches. Pulisz said something to him but there was no sound.

  A hull plate burst through the bulkhead not five feet from Ormuz. It slid canted across the passage, heavy, inexorable. Silent. Two figures fell beneath it. One had been near cut in half. She would not survive long. The other stared white-eyed at his mangled arm and made soundless choking noises.

  Another casualty lay on the deck, bleeding from the ears and mouth.

  Pulisz gestured vigorously. Ormuz turned back from the casualties. The Provost-Aboard was pointing up the gangway, at the rent in the bulkhead. That way! That way!

  Ormuz pulled his sword from his scabbard and brandished it. He opened his mouth to say something, to shout “Charge!” perhaps; but then realised the futilty of doing so. They were all deaf from the collision. Instead, he turned and ran.

  The hole was edged with sharp steel bent back, jagged, still hot. Ormuz clambered gingerly through. He put out a hand to steady himself and razor-edged steel sliced his palm. He swore.

  Someone behind him pushed him to one side and he realised abruptly he stood on the edge of a black chasm. Ahead lay an even greater hole through steel of a much higher gauge. But there was a gap of ten feet before it, an abyss that fell from his feet, dark and slightly curved under beneath him. He saw girders and buttresses vanishing into the blackness. Of course, the outer hull.

  A pair of well-built provosts manhandled a wide plank of metal across the gap. It had chargers within it, to bridge the gravityless area between the hulls. Through the breach in the outer hull Ormuz could see the interior of the enemy cruiser. It appeared much the same as Vengeful. Wooden decking. Steel walls. A narrow gangway.

  And a group of rateds with clubs gesturing belligerently.

  They made rude gestures, yelled and shouted—and now that his hearing was slowly returning, Ormuz was amused at their language.

  The plank was down, bridging the gap between the battlecruiser’s inner and outer hulls.

  Ormuz put a hand to Pulisz’s shoulder and leaned close. He spoke loudly, as their hearing was not yet back to normal. “Shall we show them how it’s done?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Pulisz nodded quickly, nervously.

  Ormuz grinned. Fear set his heart beating fast, but he could also feel destiny beckoning. He would not die this day. Fate could not be so cruel. While he could picture himself dying at the hands of the cruiser’s crew, he could also imagine himself laying low all those he fought.

  He put a foot on the plank. Turning, he saw the faces of the provosts—twisted and feral, violence in every malevolent grimace, aflame with a need for vengeance.

  He turned back. Another foot.

  And then he was running, sword held before him.

  He took the first enemy rated in the chest. Had him down to the deck, and dodged a swinging billy-club as he pulled out his blade. Pulisz beside him lunged at another, stabbing him in the neck. The provosts piled into the enemy. Someone went down, brains bursting from the back of his skull as a billy-club impacted. One of Pulisz’s provosts? Ormuz could not tell. He turned to another, lashed out with the pommel of his sword. A reverse of the wrist and he whipped the blade across the man’s face. As he fell back, Ormuz thrust and the man was dead.

  Someone thumped him on the arm, a heavy blow that bruised. He dodged away. It had been accidental. Not a weapon. A billy-club could have broken his arm. Another person tried to grab him, both arms about him. Ormuz brought up his knee. The attacker fell back. Ormuz’s blade slid smoothly into his chest.

  Suddenly, he stumbled free of the melee. He turned about, in time to see the last of the enemy go down as a billy-club smacked into the side of her head. Pulisz stood amid his provosts, gulping great breaths of air, his sword red to the hilt, black blood sprayed across his bluecoat. Ormuz looked down at his own jacket. It too was covered in gore.

  “To the bridge!” he shouted.

  He had one officer and a handful of provosts behind him. With them, he would take a ship.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The pinnace landed and rocked gently on its chargers. Kordelasz was already in the prow, waiting for the bow-doors to open. Rinharte rose to her feet and turned to regard her crew. She wondered if they felt as she did: bled free of emotion, unable to feel relief or fear or sorrow. So many had died. Including Rated Mahzan, the woman who had discovered Tempest’s main-gun.

  Light flooded the boat as the bow-doors spread wide. Kordelasz thudded down the ramp and out of the pinnace. Rinharte moved to follow him, but halted at the top of the ramp. She saw rolling hills of green in the distance, like the swells of a viridian ocean. Above, the sky was cloudless, but scarred here and there by black lines of smoke. The epitaphs of ships which had died.

  She walked down the ramp and onto the grass. There was a faint breeze from the left and carried on it a faint smell of foliage. Kordelasz had vanished. Puzzled, Rinharte made her way round the pinnace—

  Behind the boat, a large camp had been set out: line after line of neat tents, field-kitchens and tabors at the intersection of each lane. In the centre of this canvas town, colourful pavilions formed a small citadel. Banners and battle-standards on poles identified the regiments and militia in Ormuz’s army.
They fluttered listlessly in the light wind. Most, Rinharte did not recognise. For the first time since the Admiral’s mutiny, she suddenly understood the magnitude of the forces at work here—No, not just in this army. Against those they fought, too: those who sought to topple the Imperial Throne.

  Kordelasz approached. With him, she recognised a familiar figure: Major of Marines Skaria.

  “… up before the damn mast,” Skaria was saying, with a grin, “if it weren’t for the problem that’d give me with morale.”

  They came to a halt before her. Skaria reached out, took one of her hands in both of his and squeezed. “It’s good to see you, Rizbeka,” he said.

  “You, too,” she replied. She gave a wan smile. “We nearly didn’t make it.”

  “Ah, yes. Trust you to find a main-gun hidden on a troop-transport.”

  “A puzzle for you, Mattus,” Rinharte replied.

  “Indeed.”

  He turned to peer at the encampment, grimaced, then turned back. “This way,” he said.

  The three of them strode away from the flank of the pinnace, up a gradual slope and onto the peak of a rounded hill. Before them a grassy meadow inclined gently towards a line of scattered copses. Some five miles distant, hills formed the horizon. Perhaps once this had been a river valley, but no water was now in evidence. Like much of Swava’s former precincts, it was parkland, verdant and gentle country hiding one of the Empire’s greatest historical wounds.

  “Here they come,” said Kordelasz.

  Across the valley, a wave of pinnaces appeared in the sky. Hundreds of boats filled the heavens. A wave of sound rolled across Rinharte. A line of boats settled on a distant hilltop and troops poured out.

  “Damn,” said Skaria.

  “More than you expected?” Rinharte asked.

  “No. Not that.” He pointed at the distant sky. “Artillery lighters. Looks like we might have under-estimated their cannon.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Nice day for a battle,” Kordelasz said lightly.

  “It will be a better day if it ends in victory,” Skaria returned.

  “You think we might lose?” Rinharte asked.

  “We’re outnumbered heavily. Yes, we might well lose.” He pointed upwards. “The Admiral will win up there, but we need only inflict sufficient losses to break the back of the Serpent’s army.” He shook his head sadly. “No matter what it costs.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “One of Najib’s insane schemes, as usual.” Skaria grunted.

  Kordelasz grinned. “I like it.”

  “I hope it won’t be as suicidal as the one he dreamt up to rescue us from Harab,” Rinharte said. Memories of that still triggered nightmares: leaping from the frigate’s boat-bay to a pinnace, without an air-hood.

  “Fighting a battle with odds of three to one against is suicidal,” Skaria observed.

  “Ah, but the magic number is four to one,” pointed out Kordelasz. “We may still beat them.”

  Rinharte turned to gaze across the valley. On the hilltops five miles distant, figures also stood and regarded the battlefield. Platoons of troops appeared at intervals, popping into sight and then disappearing behind the hill. The endless wave of pinnaces continued, disgorging troops out of sight, and lifting off to fetch yet more from orbit.

  There was something horribly civilised about it, and Rinharte almost expected the enemy commander to come striding down the far hill, to meet Skaria in the valley-bottom and shake hands. “May the best man win,” she muttered.

  “What?” asked Kordelasz.

  Rinharte described the image that had come to her, likening it to two opponents meeting before a sports match.

  “This is no damned sport,” Skaria said. “We’re not ready to make a move yet and I’m not firing a shot until I know I’m ready. You can bet the enemy knows to the second when to expect my attack. He’ll be rushing to get his troops into position before then.”

  “The only surprise in land war,” remarked Kordelasz, “is that afterwards you discover you managed to survive.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ormuz led an army through the narrow gangways of Kantara. Pulisz had identified the cruiser for him as they jogged up a ramp. There had been a crest on the bulkhead—a sword balanced between two mountains, its tip on one peak and pommel on the other. Ormuz vaguely remembered the name but could recall nothing useful about the vessel.

  “The Duke of Amano’s eldest is captain,” Pulisz added.

  That was a name Ormuz knew—one of the most powerful duchies in the Empire.

  They had now climbed two decks but met no one. Ormuz halted at the top of a ramp and looked back. Pulisz’s nine rateds had been joined by ten times that number. They filled the gangway below. Not all were armed. The rear ranks were pushing forward.

  “Do you know your way around this class?” Ormuz asked Pulisz. He was operating on the assumption that the bridge was “up”, but he could be wrong.

  “Yes, my lord. One more deck and we’ll be in the supply passage. Then it’s a straight run aft to the foot of the conning-tower.”

  In the supply passage, they eventually found Kantara’s crew. Like the invaders, they were provosts and armed with billy-clubs. The ship’s company of marines must also be on Geneza. Four white-faced lieutenants led the enemy sailors.

  Ormuz did not wait. He ran forward, his sword out before him. Knocking aside one lieutenant’s blade, he ran him through. And dodged wildly as a billy-club swung at him. Behind him, he heard a clash of steel and knew Pulisz had engaged. He turned quickly about to see an enemy officer lunge for him. But he had his hilt up in time to deflect the blow. Flicked up the point, pinked him in the biceps. And then a step to the side, hammer down on the officer’s wrist with the pommel and pivot smoothly to meet the fourth lieutenant.

  Only to be bowled aside as Vengeful’s rateds piled into the melee. Ormuz felt a thwack against his ribs. He looked down to see a blade had just missed him. He lifted his own sword. And thrust.

  More rateds pushed into the fight. Ormuz was carried forwards. He had his blade point-down, his arms held to his chest. Something struck him a blow on the shoulder. He lashed out with an elbow. No way to know if it had been a Vengeful or Kantara rated.

  He stumbled as he fell out the other side of the ruck. The supply passage ahead was clear. Ten yards ahead he could see an open space. He ran forwards. Footsteps beat off the decking behind him.

  He was in the cruiser’s hall, and there some five yards away, a square opening in the roof, ten feet square. The conning-tower!

  There were no lifts up the well, only a ramp leading up on two sides. Ormuz set off up the nearest. The charger buried within it provided gravity in its plane—to Ormuz it seemed as though he ran on the level. Pulisz was at his side. Behind them followed more of Vengeful’s crew.

  As they passed hatchways and passages, Ormuz threw out orders, “Seize what you find!”

  He was at the top of the conning-tower now. A single hatch. Open. He stepped over the coaming and found himself in a square chamber high up on the cruiser’s superstructure. A pair of rateds manned a console forward. Behind them stood a petty officer, and behind her, two officers. One was shouting into a glass on a communications-console:

  “I don’t care what he thinks! I need him to take me and my crew off! Tell him to warp us in.”

  Ormuz stepped forward. He jabbed the enemy officer at the communications-console lightly in the small of his back.

  “What is it, damn you?” the man snapped, spinning about.

  There was something familiar about the man, and it was a moment before Ormuz realised it was because he had seen his service record in the nomosphere. He remembered his name: Fokuan. A member of one of the first families. And he looked the part: sleek, well-fed and supercilious.

  He fell silent when he saw Ormuz and the men behind him. “W
ho in heavens are you?”

  “A boarding party,” Ormuz answered. “And you are the captain of Kantara. I’ll have your parole, if you please.”

  “What? Parole?”

  “We’ve taken your ship, your lordship. So be kind enough to surrender.”

  The man abruptly straightened. His expression cleared and he said, “Captain Pim umar Fokuan, Marquess Ukiashi.”

  “You yield? Yourself and your ship?”

  “I do, sir.” Ukiashi bowed, as to a victor. “Might I have your name?”

  Ormuz sheathed his sword. “Casimir Ormuz,” he said. He looked about him. There were windows ahead and to port and starboard. He could see battle raging about him, beams of light from main-guns across the heavens, damaged hulls trailing debris twisting and turning. Ships dying. People dying. Small clouds of… ship fragments? dead crew?

  Something huge and black and mysterious moved up on Kantara to starboard. Ormuz crossed to the window. It was… a warship. A huge one. Bigger than Vengeful.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded of Ukihashi.

  “Empress Glorina is winching us in to take off my crew.”

  “She’s docking?” asked Ormuz, incredulous. “In the middle of a space-battle?”

  “We’re at the rear. I thought it safe enough.”

  Ormuz turned to Pulisz. “Get a runner to the Admiral,” he instructed him. “Play this right and we can capture the enemy flagship!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  For one brief moment, Ormuz felt as though he were falling. He could see Empress Glorina’s hull drawing near, but it seemed to him as if he were plumetting toward some plain of machined steel. It took an effort of will to dispel the illusion.

  He stood in a loading bay, and before him an open hatch some ten feet high by twenty feet wide looked out onto the approaching Empress Glorina. Silently and massively, she drifted closer. She began to roll slightly and an open loading hatch on her side rose into view. Two windows—across a gap of one hundred feet of space. Vacuum. If Ormuz stepped through the force-curtain across the hatch, he would die…