by Ian Irvine
‘My team charged with repairing and recovering the thapter numbers twenty-four: eighteen guards, a sergeant and a captain, and four of our artisans, watching everything the slaves do to repair the thapter. There are nine of them. Eight are former artisans and artificers who were familiar with thapters, and the ninth is a former thapter pilot.’
‘What about Flydd?’
‘He took the bait. His sky galleon is only hours from the thapter site.’
‘Do our people know he’s coming?’
Durthix hesitated. ‘No.’
Why not? ‘Are you going to warn them?’
‘A Merdrun force is always prepared to fight off an attack.’
Skald was not sure he liked the sound of that. Yet, if no one else knew about the assassination attempt, there was no way Flydd could be warned in advance.
‘I don’t know how many people he has,’ Durthix added, ‘but it will be a strong force. Your gate will take you to a gully a couple of miles from the thapter, so the small sound of the gate’s opening won’t be audible. You will recon the area and devise your assassination plan. Nothing more can be planned in advance. That’s why you were chosen, Captain Skald – for your initiative. Get ready; you’ll go when we know Flydd’s attack is close. It wouldn’t do for you to arrive first and be slain by our guards.’
Skald saluted Durthix, and went, still troubled.
After he had gone Dagog emerged from his hiding place. ‘I don’t like this, Durthix. There’s much about Skald that troubles me.’
‘He’s done well so far.’
‘His mouth says one thing but I’m sure his mind is saying another. I suspect him of being emotional!’
‘When we were solely a warrior race in the void,’ said Durthix, ‘all a soldier needed was superb training, absolute endurance and instant obedience. But now we’re in reach of the goal that has eluded us these past ten thousand years, different abilities are required. We all must adapt, Magiz. Even you.’
‘I’m aware of it!’ Dagog snapped.
‘Now who’s being emotional?’
‘I don’t like him. Let him make one small slip and I’ll have him.’
Durthix did not conceal his revulsion. ‘Be careful it’s not you who makes the slip, Magiz. Besides, it’s almost certain that Skald will fail and be killed, which will punish him for his previous failures and solve the problem. There is, however, a small possibility that he’ll succeed in assassinating Flydd, and this is worth any risk.’
Dagog grunted, which Durthix took for agreement, or at least, not disagreement.
‘We stand on the precipice, Magiz,’ Durthix went on. ‘On the one hand, the True Purpose we’ve fought towards for all our aeons in the void – the goal that will complete our transformation and gain us our long-delayed revenge. On the other hand, should we fail, utter ruin. Nothing can stand in our way, including you. You will master your addiction, or you will no longer be magiz.’
The threat was a deadly one, for there was no resigning from the position. A redundant magiz was a dead magiz.
‘At so critical a time?’ said Dagog. ‘There’s no one to replace me.’
‘All the more reason, if you truly care about our True Purpose as much as I do,’ Durthix said softly, ‘to master your addiction to drinking lives before it masters you.’
In the walled yard, Skald stood at the point marked while a senior sus-magiz, a stocky, taciturn woman called Zilzey, took various measurements and pointed three tripod-mounted devices, each separated by a number of yards, at his chest.
‘Is all this really necessary?’ he grumbled, the stress momentarily overcoming his good sense.
‘You’re a very junior sus-magiz,’ said Zilzey.
He took the rebuke in silence.
‘Any error of aim or opening could reveal the gate, and you,’ she went on. ‘In which case you will fail and die.’
‘Thank you for correcting me,’ said Skald. He did not need any more enemies.
‘Ready?’ she said.
‘Ready.’
Three beams of pale-yellow light touched his chest. Zilzey adjusted them slightly until they converged in a circle, struck the iron shoe of her staff on the cobblestones, and he was gated into darkness.
He fell a foot onto hard ground, knees bent to take the impact in silence. The night was hot here; he smelled desert herbs, a hint of wood smoke and dry, baked earth, refreshing scents after the humid stench of Guffeons. Zilzey’s precisely targeted little gate had brought him to the destination in almost perfect silence. It was a marvel beyond his understanding, though one he was determined to master … if he survived.
First, he had to avoid the Merdrun’s outer guards, who would kill anyone who came near.
Skald used all his skills, and some subtle sus-magiz magic, to avoid being detected as he wormed his way across the stony ground to a small, rock-crested knoll. From its top he should have a clear view of the site.
The thapter, which had lain on its side for the past fourteen years, was a quarter of a mile away, near the crest of a low hill. It had been righted and was lit by a variety of glowing lanterns on poles. The sparse vegetation had been cleared and burned, leaving a mound of ash and red coals. At the base of the hill a small creek, presumably dry at this time of year, had also been cleared for a couple of hundred yards.
Sections of the thapter’s metal skin had been removed and three slave artisans were bent over it, watched by two Merdrun. The rest of the skilled slaves must be inside. A ring of Merdrun guards, thirty yards out from the thapter, were led by a sergeant and watched by a captain.
The other six guards must be patrolling further out, and if Skald had not known they were there he might never have located them. After finding the last he lowered his head and merged into his surroundings as only a skilled Merdrun could. He would not move until Flydd attacked. Hopefully, in the chaos of battle, Skald could creep in and cut him down.
The minutes stretched into an hour. And two. Three. Four.
Where was Flydd? Durthix had said that Skald would not be sent until the attack was imminent. What was causing the delay? Had the plot been discovered? He wiped sweat out of his eyes and studied the stars. Only half an hour until dawn. Assassinating Flydd would be far more difficult in daylight. Realistically, almost impossible.
Metal clanged on metal, then he made out a faint humming. With exquisite care he checked on the thapter again. The slave artisans were replacing sections of its metal skin. They had completed the repairs and must be testing its mechanisms and controls.
If all was working perfectly, they would direct the slave pilot to fly it to a safe place, and what a prize it would be. With a working thapter the Merdrun could quickly collect other thapter and construct parts and, in one of the enemy’s manufactories they now controlled, make more of them. With a fleet of thapters they would soon put an end to the resistance.
But if it was gone Flydd would have no reason to land. An opportunity lost, because the man who cut him down would be honoured, and success here would make it harder for the magiz to bring Skald down. Heroes mattered, and heroes risen from the ranks were an inspiration to everyone. However, if he returned without killing Flydd, Skald would be more vulnerable. The failure, through no fault of his own, would remain on his record for ever.
A scream echoed through the night. Had Flydd attacked? How could his force get into position without Skald realising they were here? Only if it was concealed by a mighty illusion. And if Flydd’s archers detected him, he would die from a bolt to the back of the head without ever knowing he had been hit.
37
Trying To Look Like All The Other Dead
Three Merdrun guards in the inner ring fell to enemy archers firing from the darkness. Then another two fell and, though they had only taken flesh wounds, both were writhing on the ground, unable to get up. Poisoned bolts! The scum! And Skald’s orders were to do nothing. It felt so wrong.
Flydd must have landed the sky galleon miles away and
sent his archers in, concealed by a mighty glamour, because when Skald looked behind him to the places they must be firing from, he saw nothing. They had found and killed the outer ring of six guards without a sound – skilled warriors indeed.
Two more Merdrun fell; of the twelve inner guards, six were down, plus the sergeant. Two of the four Merdrun supervising the repairs had also been killed. The other two butchered the slave artisans and the pilot and doused the lights, but a minute later the area was lit by a brilliant white flare that hung in the air several hundred feet up. Three more guards fell, then the enemy swordsmen stormed in.
A Merdrun fighter was normally the equal of two enemy, but the odds were too great. The three remaining soldiers turned the site into a killing field, but they were quickly cut down, and their captain last of all.
This wasn’t right. Merdrun were supposed to win.
Why, since Durthix had known about the coming attack, hadn’t he sent a greater force? Why hadn’t the captain set some guards even further out, well hidden?
An unpleasant thought surfaced. Had the squad been sent to the thapter to lure Flydd out into the open? Did Durthix intend them to be sacrificed? Surely not.
The attackers were led by a short, stocky man that Skald recognised, because he had studied sketches of all the key enemy, as Cryl-Nish Hlar, known as Nish, a hero of the Lyrinx War. Astonishing! A runt like him would never have been admitted to the Merdrun army.
And where was Flydd?
A white flare burst in the sky, eastwards. ‘Nish’s signal,’ said Flydd. ‘He’s taken the thapter.’
Maelys, who, despite her previous hard words, had been biting her knuckles since Nish left, let out a great huff.
‘Chiss–’ began Flydd.
Chissmoul, who had been beside herself since Flangers left with the attack force, hurled the sky galleon into the air, raced to the thapter site and landed so fast and hard that the craft skidded in a half circle, raising eye-stinging clouds of dust. Flydd gave her his most ferocious scowl.
‘Flangers?’ she wailed.
‘Here!’ He appeared out of the dust, unharmed.
As it settled, scatters of bodies were revealed: many red-armoured Merdrun, half of Nish’s grey-clad swordsmen and, near the thapter, the enemy artisans and all their skilled slaves, who had presumably been killed to prevent Flydd rescuing them. Karan looked away; she had seen enough violence to give her nightmares for many lifetimes.
And yet, she could not help thinking that the victory had been a little too easy.
‘Get started on the checks,’ Flydd said to his three artisans, ‘and make it snappy. The enemy may send a relief squad.’
Nish, unharmed save for a gash on his left forearm, issued orders. The bodies around the thapter were dragged further away and he set out his guards. Flydd’s artisans began to inspect the thapter, double-checking every mechanism. He followed them around but kept coming out to study the sky and the landscape.
His anxiety rubbed off on Karan, who expected an enemy gate to form at any moment. The Merdrun had two defeats to avenge now.
After midday Flydd’s chief artisan, a bow-legged, bent-backed southerner of indeterminate age, climbed out. Flydd was in the shade behind the thapter, staring east.
‘It’s ready, surr.’
‘You’ve double-checked every mechanism?’
‘I know thapters like the back of my hand.’
Flydd allowed himself a small smile. ‘Finally, something goes right.’
He roused Chissmoul, who was curled in a dark corner of the sky galleon, beside Flangers. A good soldier never missed the opportunity to catch up on sleep, and there had been little last night.
‘Get up. You’ve got flying to do. Your very own thapter.’
Chissmoul unfolded herself and a smile of pure joy lit her face. ‘You mean it, Xervish?’
‘How often do I say things I don’t mean?’ he growled. ‘Make sure all is working as it should, then take it up.’
She reached out to wake Flangers.
‘Just you,’ said Flydd. ‘Let him sleep.’
Chissmoul ran barefoot to the thapter, and scrambled up and in. The mechanisms whined, it shuddered and shook, and dust boiled up from underneath. It rose vertically and hovered, then rotated in place for a couple of minutes.
The whine grew to a roar, then it rocketed away across the desert, raising clouds of dust. It raced back, past the campfire and on, climbed and looped the loop and hurtled down again, only to slow and land sedately beside Flydd.
Flangers, who had woken the moment Chissmoul left his side, was on his feet, grinning like a prize-winning schoolboy. He went across to Flydd, who had been listening to reports via his farspeaker and was now writing on a square piece of paper. Flydd signed at the bottom, folded the paper in on all sides to form an envelope, sealed it and handed it to Flangers.
‘What’s this?’ said Flangers.
‘Your commissions and your orders.’
‘Commissions, surr?’
‘You are given charge of the thapter, and Chissmoul will pilot it. Head north to Roros. Yulla Zaeff, the former Governor, has hidden many talented people and amassed a great war chest. When you get there, open your sealed orders and do whatever she requires while you await my further orders.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Wherever the war takes me, Lieutenant. I’m heading to Stassor, then north-west to Faranda, to seek the aid of the Aachim. Though I don’t hold out great hope of getting it.’
Flangers gathered his gear and climbed in. Chissmoul did not come down to say farewell; Karan supposed that she begrudged leaving her precious flier, even briefly. What a strange, nervy woman she was.
She waved joyfully from the hatch and pulled it down. Nothing happened for a minute, then the thapter rocketed into the air, buzzed the campfire, climbed to a great height, the sun striking brassy reflections off it, and turned north.
The sky galleon raced in, skidding sideways across the stony ground, and a small, scrawny, ugly fellow descended. Skald caught his breath, for there was no mistaking the great enemy. Flydd gave orders and headed for the thapter, accompanied by a group of artisans and two women, one with long red hair and the other, who could not have been more than five feet tall, with short black hair.
Nish ordered the bodies near the thapter dragged further out. Skald, who had been trying to think of a plan since the attack began, now saw his chance, but he had to move at once. Dawn was no more than fifteen minutes away and every minute of growing light would make the job more difficult, and success less likely.
He wormed his way down towards the cleared area, which was still partly obscured by dust, then to a place where two dead Merdrun lay together. The nearest corpse was drenched in blood; a bolt embedded in his groin must have severed an artery.
No one was looking Skald’s way. He rolled against the corpse, allowing the soldier’s blood to cover his chest armour and right side, then smeared blood in his hair and down one side of his face, and gashed his left arm with his own knife, for realism. He crawled away – three bodies where there had formerly been two would look suspicious; a body lying by itself would not – sprawled on his belly with his eyes narrowed to slits, trying to look like all the other dead, and waited.
The dust settled. The sun rose and within minutes the area was buzzing with flies. What did they feed on when there were no bodies? They were crawling all over him, especially along the gash on his left arm and on the blood he’d smeared on his face, biting him and making him itch everywhere they touched. They swarmed around his eyes and even up his nose. It took all his self-control, and all the stoicism developed over a lifetime of training, to ignore them. He must not move, must not even twitch.
Flydd emerged from the thapter and went aboard the sky galleon without coming anywhere near Skald. Some minutes later he led a tall, white-haired lieutenant and the two women down to the dry creek, where a campfire burned, and they ate and drank.
The sun
was hot now. Skald badly needed a drink, but he had to ignore hunger and thirst. If his chance came, it would be fleeting. He would leap to his feet, run and hack Flydd’s ugly head from his narrow shoulders from behind. Or, if Flydd was coming Skald’s way, drive the heavy sword blade clean through his ribs and out his back.
Then bolt and try to make a gate on the run, though that would almost certainly fail, because Skald dared not do any of the preliminary steps beforehand. It would drain him at a time when he needed all his strength, and such powerful mancery might be detected.
Another hour went by, and he began to smell the bodies. They would decay quickly in this heat and, if the enemy decided to move them further away, he must be discovered.
Guards went from body to body, collecting the weapons. Skald forced himself to lie still as his sword, a key part of his honour, was taken. Curse them! He wanted to draw the long knife hidden in his left boot and kill the lot of them, but the loss must be endured.
The sun rose higher. The enemy dead were taken aboard the sky galleon. The Merdrun, presumably, would be left for the scavengers. Flydd headed down to the campfire, returned sipping from a yellow china mug and went into the thapter again.
Skald’s mouth and throat were paper-dry now. He had expected Flydd to be here when he arrived, and to attack him in darkness. The intervening eight hours, five of them lying in direct sunlight, had dehydrated him and he was weakening, but he dared not touch the pannikin on his left hip. The slightest movement could give him away.
Xervish Flydd climbed out of the thapter, smiling and wiping his hands on a rag. He thought he’d succeeded. Not yet, you hideous little runt!
He was still too far away. Nish and the white-haired lieutenant were at the rear of the thapter, but both were watchful, and Skald recognised, by the way the lieutenant’s gaze constantly swept the area, a professional like himself.
Skald would only have seconds to leap to his feet, run to Flydd and cut him down. Any longer and the crossbow-armed sentries would shoot him. His best hope of succeeding was if Flydd was less than five or six yards away.
