by Col Buchanan
He’s good, Nico had a chance to think, even as he deflected the young man’s furious blows left and right, falling back against the rubble. Any moment now and that blade of Romano’s would be sinking deep into his body. In desperation, recalling his Rōshun training sessions, Nico swept the general’s sword aside then launched himself right at him, smashing his forehead into the man’s nose and breaking it with a crack.
Romano fell back roaring like a wounded bull, and Nico’s sword swung up in his grasp like it weighed nothing, and he thrust it into the general’s side – only for the man’s armour to deflect the point of his steel. Nico stabbed again, at the throat this time, and once again the armour there caught his blade. Another rump of a zel slapped into him. Another rider went down.
Romano’s blade sung through the air just over his ducking head, and just for an instant the general was badly over-extended.
Time seemed to slow. Nico’s breath was a ragged wheezing thing in his throat. Heartbeats drummed in his ears. In pure desperate instinct, Nico slashed low and fast and felt the blade passing clean through Romano’s knee.
Down went the general with a scream, rolling and sliding back down the slope. Nico pounced after him but an enemy rider tried to block his way. A few riders were leaping to the ground now with their shields raised over their fallen general, and even as Nico tried to reach him someone grabbed him from behind, and pulled him roughly back up the slope.
‘Let go of me,’ he roared, knowing that it was his father and Aléas come to take him from his victory.
Romano too was being lifted away. The man surged in the clutches of his men and raged at Nico with a grasping outstretched hand, the blood spurting from the stump of his left leg.
‘Easy, boy, easy,’ said Cole into his ear. ‘Look, they’re falling back!’
‘But he’s mine,’ screamed Nico. ‘He’s mine!’
‘Not today he isn’t. Not today, son.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Diplomat
Broken glass crunched under Coya’s boot, causing the others to stop mid-step so that they could glare at him across the space of the darkened taverna.
The oldest of the Rōshun, Wild, straightened with a sigh. ‘Place looks deserted anyway,’ he said. ‘Anyone alive over there?’
Across the room, Curl the medico shook her head next to the many bodies that lay around the bar amongst scattered tables and chairs. ‘Most of them are Mannian infantry,’ she said. ‘Looks like someone made a stand here.’
The stench was worse than a slave pit, Ché thought, wrinkling his nose as he crouched next to the body of an imperial soldier. Inky shadows filled the interior of the Broken Wheel, cast by the faintest of starlight leaking through gaps in the shuttered windows. Ché had to grope for the knife in the soldier’s scabbard.
Wild was right, he thought. If anyone had been holed up in this place, they were long gone now.
‘Spread out,’ croaked Coya, and his voice shook like the concussions of battle still raging to the south. ‘There are many rooms. Below us, another large taproom. We must be certain.’
*
‘Come on,’ muttered the captain of the skud overhead, standing at the rail of her small skyboat while she peered towards the east, where the first glimmer of the moon could be seen rising above the far mountains of the High Tell.
At the stern of the boat, her chief hand glanced up at the moonlight now striking the underside of the loft, then looked back at her with a frown.
What’s taking them so long?
A jingle of movement sounded from one of the riflemen, the young man with the tattooed head. He was flapping his hand for her attention.
‘Trouble,’ he told her, and she looked in the direction of his scope to see a lantern passing between two buildings only a few streets away. Following it came the sudden echoes of loud voices, clearly locked in an argument.
‘Imperial patrol. I think they’re drunk.’
The captain shook her head, not in the least bit surprised. This whole damned awful week, her luck had been running bad.
The skud strained against its anchor, silk loft rippling softly in the breeze. It seemed as though every person on the boat held their breaths as the enemy squad emerged into sight and headed straight for the Broken Wheel, swinging a shuttered lantern to light their way.
‘Shut up!’ One of the soldiers roared in accented Trade. ‘Just shut up, the pair of you. Jengi, give me more of that Cheem Fire before you finish it all.’
‘It’s mine, I said. I found it!’
‘Am I going to have to pull rank on you, soldier?’
There were a dozen of them. Imperial troops in grey cloaks stamping past the taverna in a ragged group, burdened with chests and bags of loot and bottles of alcohol, too cold and drunk to bother looking up at the skyboat hovering right above their heads.
‘Jengi, you bastard, what are you doing over there?’
‘Being sick by the looks of it.’
‘You believe this? Selfish prick drinks it all down him then throws it all up again!’
The group stopped to gather round their companion bent over and retching against the side of the taverna, shoving at him in angry play.
‘Lemme alone!’
One of them belched. Another laughed aloud. They seemed in no hurry to move on.
Let’s hope they don’t realize they’re standing outside another taverna.
To the east the moon rose higher into view, casting its glow like a beacon light against the floating skud.
The captain narrowed her eyes. She could see skyships out there to the north. Imperial Birds-of-War flying over the northern wall and headed this way.
‘God damn worse week of my life,’ she growled to herself.
*
‘Mannians,’ hissed Wild. ‘Get down!’
They crouched in the ruins of the room they’d been passing through, Ché and Curl and a pair of Rōshun, faces covered by scarves to ward off the stench of the dead.
Ché looked up through a broken shutter at a sudden dance of lantern light passing by on the street outside, hearing a gabble of loud voices. The light moved on a little way, but the voices hung around not far from the window.
‘Chinsk, go warn the others,’ muttered Wild.
‘The moon’s getting up,’ said young Chinsk. ‘Captain said we had to get back before it—’
‘I know, lad. Now go and tell Coya we have some Imperials passing by.’
The young Rōshun rose and moved smoothly from the room. It was true what he’d said about the rising moon. The street was brightening outside, the far walls washed by a pale silver light.
‘Let’s give them a moment to move on,’ Ché suggested, and no one disagreed.
A wind was gathering out there, the occasional gust causing the whole structure of the Broken Wheel to groan and flex while it whistled through a thousand cracks. Ché felt the hairs on his arms rising, like a lightning storm was approaching. He blinked in surprise at a soft violet light shining around the sword in Wild’s hand.
‘Arcwind,’ the Rōshun whispered as though that explained it.
Curl was crouched next to him. Ché saw her silhouette jerk as a bottle smashed outside on the cobbles and somebody laughed.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she breathed, trembling slightly.
He watched her turn towards him; turn away; turn back again.
‘Why did you volunteer for this mission?’
‘I wanted to make sure you’d be all right.’
He wasn’t certain what to make of her sigh or the lowering of her head. And then he spotted Wild rising slightly from his crouch to stare back through the shadows.
‘Who’s that?’ said the Rōshun in a hoarse whisper. ‘Is that you, Chinsk?’
‘Who are you speaking to?’ Curl asked him.
‘Over there behind the barrels. I saw someone move.’
‘You’ve good eyes. I can’t see a thing.’
But
Ché could see him too now, a small boy hiding down behind some scattered barrels, a pair of eyes gleaming in the gloom. Without warning the child bolted from his hiding place to rush out through the doorway from which they had come.
Ché lost sight of him as he hurried into the central room of the taverna again, where the other Rōshun were emerging from another doorway. He glanced over the strewn tables and chairs all the way to the bar on the far side, before he spotted a shape near some stairs – Coya, standing over his cane, one side of his face struck by moonlight.
The crooked man gestured towards the bar, where a sudden, gentle thump sounded.
In a hush the Rōshun spread out, following Ché across the floor with their blades drawn.
‘Put them down,’ said Wild. ‘It’s only a child.’
And then Ché was staring down at the floor behind the bar, where a wooden trapdoor was fitted snugly into the planking.
Ché gave it a soft tap with his knuckles.
Nothing.
‘Stand back,’ said Wild, grabbing the iron ring of the trapdoor, and then he gave a mighty heave and lifted the whole door up in one go, so that he fell back with it on his ass.
Before a smile could even cross the distance of Ché’s lips, a shocking pain struck his ears like stabbing splinters of wood. Then a fierce nausea gripped his being entirely.
Ché doubled over from it, trying to breathe, trying to see through his swimming vision as a figure climbed out of the hole in the floor, not a child but a dark form looming taller and taller above him.
With his guts twisting about themselves, Ché managed to wriggle clear of the bar, and glanced back to see a towering black-skinned woman with a cloud of hair glaring down at the writhing form of Wild. But then his cramping guts rolled him over in agony, just like everyone else squirming on the floor all about him.
Through his tears Ché saw the impossible – someone still standing on their feet, right there in the middle of the room.
It was Coya Zeziké, the damned cripple, hunched against the gale of force washing over them all, leaning on his cane as though it was some mythical taproot fixing him to the centre of the world. Coya even managed a shambling step forwards, breaking the illusion that he was immobile, replacing it with another one in which he had some kind of power here too, some kind of counter-force. As though to ward off her energies he held out his hand, and called out: ‘Hold, Fallen One, we come as friends!’
And just like that the howling nausea vanished, and the pain in Ché’s ears slowly drained away.
*
‘Tell me now and tell me straight,’ Coya said to the tall black-skinned woman. ‘Do you have the moondust with you?’
‘Right here,’ the figure answered, swinging the bag on her back into view.
‘Then let us save our introductions until later, shall we?’
She didn’t move for a moment, but then she nodded her consent.
She was a good seven-foot tall, this woman who had floored them all by some unknown means. Ché tilted his head at her strange accent, unable to place it. Far-Eastern, maybe.
Behind her, more survivors were climbing out of the trapdoor, where a deep cellar ran under the floor. Six, seven Khosians at least. They would be hard-pressed to fit them all onto the skud.
‘Vay, good to see you alive,’ Coya said to another woman stepping up and wiping dust from her unhappy expression. The middle-aged woman was a Tuchoni, he saw, with great metal hoops through her ears and a scarf on her head.
‘Coya. You have a way out of here?’
‘Yes, there’s a skyboat waiting on the roof.’
‘Then let’s go,’ said the Tuchoni woman. ‘I’ve had my fill of hiding out in wine cellars.’
The moonlight was bleeding through the shutters now. The wind gusted again and the building creaked all around them. The skud would be squirming up there against its anchor.
As they turned to leave a loud shout came from outside. And then someone cursed as rifle fire broke out in the street.
‘We must hurry!’ Coya rasped, and he led the way towards the stairs even as the Rōshun swept past him.
‘Where’s Curl?’ Ché asked one of the passing men.
‘Who?’
‘The medico, man. Where’s the damned medico?’
But the Rōshun youth only shrugged as he headed up the stairs after the others.
Ché was swearing to himself in an uncharacteristic panic as he pushed back against the flow of people. More gunfire crackled overhead, sounding like return fire from the skud.
He came upon her in the room where they’d spotted the boy in hiding. Curl was bent low over one of the bodies on the floor; a young girl, covered in blood, gasping as though trying to speak.
‘Help me,’ Curl rasped upon seeing him, pressing a pressure bandage against the girl’s side. ‘She’s still alive.’
Ché peered down, seeing the blood bubbling from purple lips, and the dark shadows of her sunken features.
‘She’s dying, Curl. She’s lost too much blood. We need to get out of here!’
‘Help me!’
He cursed again and grabbed Curl up in his arms and threw her over his shoulder. She weighed very little, but she yelled and squirmed so fiercely he nearly dropped her.
When Ché staggered around, he was startled by Wild standing there in the doorway, a shortsword held at the ready.
The Rōshun cocked his head as though vaguely towards an apology.
‘Thought you were making a run for it, Diplomat.’
Ché growled. ‘Come on, you fools,’ he snapped, and barged past with Curl still writhing and shouting in his grip.
The main room was empty now, the last of the survivors and Rōshun already vanished up the stairs leading to the roof. Ché clambered after them with Wild giving him helpful shoves from behind.
A distant cannon boomed its unmistakable thunder. Suddenly the building shuddered to the sound of a near miss.
Men were shouting up there on the roof amongst all the crackling rifle fire. It sounded like the rangers hollering down to the Rōshun to hurry. Another cannon boomed out. This time the explosion rocked the whole building on its foundations, and Ché fell against the stairs with bits of wood falling down around them. Curl yelled in fright.
More frantic shouting came from above. Someone was cursing and shouting Wild’s name as the skud’s thrusters started to roar.
‘They’re leaving without us!’ Wild hollered as he scrambled up past Ché and Curl, launching himself for the open doorway of the roof.
A moment later Curl and Ché spilled out after him onto the windy rooftop, even as the skud was lifting into the night with its thrusters blazing away.
Figures were still gripping onto the netting that hung from the skud’s side, the hull swaying ponderously with all the extra weight. To the north a pair of imperial Birds-of-War were approaching with their cannon booming in unison. The shots whistled in, barely missing the canopy of the skud as the small skyship swung away.
‘I don’t believe it!’ cried out Curl.
‘Believe it,’ said Wild glowering after them.
Ché said nothing, watching the departing skud sweep south towards the safety of the Khosian lines. He turned his head back towards the stairwell, hearing the crashes and stomps of hobnailed boots in the building below their feet.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Nico
‘In all my years, I never thought it could end like this,’ declared the old Michinè fellow crouched by Nico’s side.
‘Just keep passing me those fire flasks!’ Nico yelled as he swung back from a hole in the wall, eyes still locked on the imperial forces surging over the barricade with flames suddenly rising up in their midst.
They had taken cover in the blackened upper storey of a half-ruined chee house that overlooked the barricade, he and many of the surviving defenders. Only the old retired veterans known as the Molari remained down there fighting the Imperials hand-to-hand, lashing out with
swords and their wickedly long chartas, able to match the heavy enemy infantry with their own ageing shields and armour.
Explosions lit up the sky. The building trembled every few moments, boom, boom, boom, as though some kind of giant was stomping around out there. It was hard to hear anyone over the maelstrom of the battle.
‘Remember my name,’ yelled the old Michinè, trying to ignite the wick of the bottle in his grip with a spark lighter against the gathering gusts of wind. ‘Remember the name Brindle Valores if you somehow survive this storm. Remember that I was here, fighting for my city with my only son, Yan!’
‘I will!’ Nico told him with a voice raw from shouting, and he flapped his hand at him in impatience. ‘Now hurry – another flask!’
At last the cloth wick flared up and the Michinè handed him the bottle of spirits, his expression glowing manically in the sudden light.
Nico took a step back from the hole and hurled the flaming flask down at the enemy forces below, where it crashed across the front of the barricade in blossoms of fire that leapt, roaring, upon the clambering men.
By his side the old Michinè, Brindle, cackled and clapped his hands together, then reached for another bottle.
‘Keep them coming,’ shouted his father, Cole, crouched down with his rifle at a hole in the wall. ‘Give them everything you’ve got!’
‘Hey, Nico!’
It was Aléas, calling from the ragged window where he was drawing back his bow; still here, for all that the young Rōshun was supposed to have returned to the inkworks an eternity ago.
‘What?’
‘You want me to remember your name too, if you get the chop?’
‘That would be kind of you!’
‘Aye,’ shouted a wounded Volunteer from a gloomy corner. ‘Philos Janjay is my name. Remember me too!’
Suddenly, around the debris-strewn room, people were shouting their names out to each other like the introductions of drunks; as though at least in that way, they might leave some trace of themselves with whoever lived on.
Aléas was grinning, looking wild with his blond hair standing straight up on end, charged by the energies carried in the strengthening wind; another Arcwind, blowing cold and fierce from the northern Reach. Everything metal around them was sparkling with an eerie violet ghost light, armour and blades alike.
