Heirs of the Blade

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Then a scout dropped from the branches above, her bow already bent back. Thalric could not see the woman’s expression, but he was sure she was next to laughing at him: just one man come to storm half a hundred of the Commonweal’s finest. He tensed himself to dive aside behind a tree, his hands warming to sting. Then Varmen caught up with him.

  The archer swung the arrow towards the newcomer and then recoiled away, her back rebounding from a tree trunk and her arrow skipping off one of Varmen’s pauldrons. She tried to shout something, but for a moment nothing emerged but jabber, the terrified stutter of a warning as she fumbled frantically for another arrow. The flash from Thalric’s outstretched palm struck her down, and then the two were moving again.

  Just the two of them, because Thalric knew that there was only himself and Varmen in this raiding party. But as he rushed past the first tent, it seemed that the forest all around was alive with running feet, the rattle of armour, even the distant sounds of heliopter engines. For a moment, this chill Commonweal night intermeshed with one from his memories, and this was no longer a doomed rescue but the inexorable weight of the Empire’s military might descending to crush yet another disorganized Commonweal force.

  He saw armoured men and women ahead, spears and swords glittering in the firelight. An arrow lashed past, far to his left. He let his hands speak for him, taking any target that presented itself. He knew that the scintillating Commonweal mail could scatter stingshot from itself at the right angle, but it did not seem to matter. He and Varmen had become an unstoppable force, and the Dragonflies did not even try to resist. They scattered right and left or straight up, a few falling to Thalric’s sting, but none staying to chance Varmen’s sword. Then the two Wasps were charging through the heart of the camp, trees looming on all sides, Dragonfly-kinden came rushing half-dressed from their tents, to stare or flee at the sight of Varmen’s armoured form,

  This won’t last, Thalric thought and, even as he did so, a Dragonfly noble dropped down to engage Varmen, his face a fixed mask of self-control. His long-hafted sword swung three times at the Wasp in rapid succession, bounding back from breastplate, shoulder and helm, and leaving barely a dent. He made to dodge around his bulky enemy, to use that restricting helm and the weight of mail against him. Varmen turned the other way, faster than Thalric could quite believe, and flattened the attacker against his shield, wheeling again to stab the Dragonfly in the leg as the wretched man staggered. The glittering mail, the work of master armourers with a thousand years’ experience, did not stretch to protecting the inner thigh, and the nobleman went down without ceremony.

  Arrows clipped from between the trees, but Thalric was running in Varmen’s shadow. The shafts sprang back from his shield or slanted from the planes of his mail, as the armoured man stomped his way forward.

  Where is Che?

  Three of the enemy mustered sufficient understanding and courage to attack Varmen from behind. Thalric, unseen beside the black and gold ironclad, killed one as they rushed in, the assailant arching backwards with a blackened hole in his face, for the Commonwealers had never designed full helms. Another man rammed his spear full strength into Varmen’s back without any understanding of the weak points of heavy mail. The point struck in the middle of the backplate, rather than seeking out the joints, and Varmen lurched forward a step under the impact, as the spear shaft bent and then snapped. The Sentinel swung round, his cleaving stroke knocking the third man’s blade from his hands. For a second the blank visor stared at them, and then Varmen had turned and was striding further into the camp.

  And Thalric heard her call his name. Those Commonwealers had no idea about how to secure prisoners either. She was merely tied to a tree beside a rank of restless horses, not penned up, not even gagged.

  ‘Varmen!’ Thalric began running for her. A Grasshopper groom or functionary came dashing along the row of horses, quite possibly for purposes unconnected with the rescue, but Thalric took no chances and stung him down anyway. He heard the clatter of steel behind him and knew that the Commonwealers were regaining their dented courage, and coming in greater numbers. He dared not look back to see how Varmen fared.

  There were no chains, no locks. He had his sword out, hacking at the ropes and cutting jagged gashes in the tree itself, and in a moment Che was free.

  An arrow dug into the trunk just above her head, even as she slumped forward. Thalric hauled her to her feet, but she sank back on to her knees, and for a moment he thought that she had been shot.

  ‘Been on a horse for days,’ Che gasped. ‘No idea how sore I am . . . barely walk.’

  ‘You’re going to have to,’ Thalric cautioned her. ‘Running would be even better.’

  She cursed as he dragged her upright again, but at least she managed to stay standing. Thalric calculated quickly, deciding the swiftest way out of the camp. True to his bad luck, the Salmae had tethered their animals safely towards the centre, and of course their prisoner too. For a moment he considered stealing a horse, but his riding skills would barely manage a sedate trot in daylight, let alone a mad gallop at night.

  ‘Varmen!’ he yelled again. Glancing back, he saw the armoured figure striding in the opposite direction. From here, all ways led out, and it seemed that the Sentinel’s shadow allowed room enough for a bruised Beetle girl as well as a former Rekef man.

  Even as they caught up, Thalric forcing Che to keep the pace, another flurry of Commonwealers attacked. A brace of arrows bounded from Varmen’s raised shield, and then there were airborne forms about him, wheeling and darting, striking at his head and shoulders. They were trying to keep him off balance, first one attacking and then another, but it seemed as though Varmen was in another world, within his helm, and no matter how hard they made it ring, none of their feints could fool him. The Sentinel’s skill was not simply in bearing the huge burden of his mail, but in fighting with complete focus and awareness, so that the mail was no burden, the visor no restriction. As each attacker lunged downwards, Varmen was ready, taking their blows on his shield, striking back only when it was economical to do so. He brought down two of five, leaving them, crawling away bloodied on the forest floor, and he did not stop for them.

  There was a voice calling out, ahead, and Che’s head snapped up at the sound.

  ‘That’s her,’ she whispered, and Thalric had no idea who she meant until he saw. They had somehow taken the one path that led them further in, to the absolute centre of the camp, or perhaps Varmen had been well aware of where he was going all along. There was a chaos of activity here, half-armoured Dragonflies flying back and forth, some rushing out to locate a threat that had already arrived at their doorstep, others trying to form up into some semblance of military order. In the midst of it all stood a woman in glorious armour of red and blue that reflected the firelight fiercely. She was practically shrieking orders, striking out at any of her people that came within fist range.

  Princess Salme Elass, last of her line.

  ‘We need to get out, not in. What are you doing?’ Thalric demanded. Varmen’s entrance had been noted, and the tail end of the Imperial awe that had got them this far lashed into the assembled Commonwealers. They did not see Thalric or Che, just that one indomitable armoured form – and, behind him, all the horrors of the Twelve-year War.

  ‘Varmen, we have to go!’ Che called. ‘They have a Weapons-master.’

  The armoured man turned briefly, helm tilting to stare over his shoulder. His sword levelled past them, indicating the direction away.

  Varmen took the next sword on his shield, long-honed instincts telling him where his new foe would be even without seeing him, calculating back from the angle of strike. He brought his sword back from signalling Thalric and Che, and chopped it into the path that he knew his assailant would take, feeling a solid impact and knowing that he had caught the man somewhere unarmoured. There seemed to be a host all about him, pressing behind and on both sides, not seen, not even heard, but felt through the weight of his mail. When he n
ow advanced, the foe fell away as though he had a regiment at his back.

  Another wave of Dragonfly-kinden dared him, and broke against his shield, passing him by as though they were so many autumn leaves. He felt the impacts of their blades and spearpoints, and had they simply stood against him, probed for the weak points in his mail, then they would have brought him down in short order. They would not stand, though, and these fleeting strikes were all they were good for.

  His narrow frame of reference scanned about him: noting the campfires, the running and flying enemy, the tents.

  He thought he saw the black and gold banner beside him, shadowed forms in striped mail, his comrades the Sentinels, but they were not really there. They had perished at Masaki, they had died at Malkan’s Stand, they had been disbanded by an Empire that no longer had need of them.

  ‘Pride of the Sixth,’ he croaked to himself, and took another step.

  For a moment he thought he saw the Dragonfly girl, not this chaff that was sleeting past him but the girl he had duelled so long ago, in that moment his life seemed to hinge on. When I was alive. For I was never so alive as in that moment. He thought that she smiled at him, and nodded, and then turned to go. Where I cannot follow, alas. I’d have followed her then, or had her follow me. She was a beauty and no mistake, even when she was trying to kill me. Especially then. After all, I’ve thought about doing the deed myself once or twice, after Malkan’s Stand. I can hardly hold it against her, then, can I?

  Another staccato rattle of weapons striking home, arrows, most of them, One shaft stuck in his elbow-joint, clipping in under the shield, but it failed to touch him. None of it touched him.

  He saw her. Not the ghost-girl now, for she had gone, or never been. He saw the leader of the enemy shouting her orders. Thalric and his Beetle woman were fleeing fast, he hoped, but he would detain his audience a little longer, to let them make their exit.

  For my next trick . . .

  He broke into a run then, and was willing to put money down that none of the enemy had realized he could do it. The weight of his mail made him unstoppable.

  He saw the woman straight ahead of him, gorgeous in armour that would have taken ten times as long to make as Varmen’s own, and cost just as much more, even without the gold chasing, and would protect her far less from his blade. She spotted his approach in mid-shout, and he had her face framed perfectly within the slot of his visor, saw her anger stretch and split, shouldered aside by the horror now hatching behind it.

  Salme Elass screamed, and her wings sprang into life, hauling her back into an ungainly leap to put more distance between her and the Imperial behemoth now closing with her.

  Abruptly there was someone in between them: a pale figure with a twisting blade hooking out from one hand. He struck four times in swift succession, curving past Varmen’s shield each time, his metal claw feeling out for the strength of the Imperial mail.

  Varmen’s steel held, and he forged forward. Whatever the antagonist had expected, it was not that. Presumably, when a Mantis-kinden stopped to fight you, you were supposed to stay fought, but Varmen shouldered on towards the Salme woman, and carried the Mantis with him. The man was too quick to get caught by the sweep of the Wasp’s blade, but Varmen gave him no time to seek out the joints and cracks in his armour, and all the while the Mantis was desperately trying to turn him aside from the princess.

  The claw-blade came for his eyeslit, but Varmen just ducked a little, feeling it scrape off his helm. The next blow chopped between neck and shoulder, but that was why his pauldrons had those high ridges protecting his throat. A strike to his groin found only layers of mail and the articulated lames of his tassets. As the Mantis gave yet more ground, Varmen caught a glimpse of his face: blank frustration growing behind the warrior’s mask.

  Others were also attacking. He felt the punch of arrows and spears against his back. It seemed impossible that one of them had not brought him down yet. But I feel as if I have the whole army with me, the glorious Sixth. I feel like they could never take me, not all the Commonwealers in the world.

  The Mantis was suddenly right before him, one hand hooking a thumb into his eyeslit, trying to force his head back, claw-blade ready to strike at his throat. It was a mistake, for now he had sacrificed all his speed and skill in order to brawl like a common soldier, and Varmen was the stronger man. He swept his shield around, feeling the rim catch his enemy somewhere in the side, forcing him away, and then Varmen simply swatted his enemy with the flat of it, knocking him aside.

  There was nothing between him and the leader of his enemies, and he was immortal.

  ‘Pride of the Sixth!’ he roared, and charged. The princess had her blade out, but she was backing away still, stumbling as she ran into a tree. Her people had been all about her, but they were running too, not one of them willing to face the Wasp-kinden.

  Then the old Mantis was back, and he had a spear levelled, coming in from Varmen’s sword side, the tip of the weapon already past his guard. Varmen lifted his blade to cut the man down, but something struck him a solid, jarring impact that left him completely still, all his surging momentum stolen away. The glory of the Sixth ebbed from him. He was immortal no longer. The dream had passed.

  He stared at the Mantis, who met his visored gaze evenly, even respectfully. The white-haired old man still held his spear, but the head of it was gone, the shaft splintered. This moment between them seemed to last for ever.

  Then Varmen nodded, understanding, and turned to go. He heard the princess’s voice shouting after him, demanding his death, but not one of her people would approach him, not even now. Feeling numb, more distant with every step, he trudged out of the camp, and they did not follow him, not yet, not then. It was almost as if a rearguard had taken up station behind him, the shadows of the Sixth guarding his slow retreat.

  Maure found him just as his strength gave out and he was forced to sit, backplate resting against a tree, as he slumped down on to the forest floor. He felt her tugging at his helm, but managed to lift a hand to stop her.

  ‘Like this,’ he wanted to say. ‘Go as I lived . . . when I lived.’ But the words were so soft that they did not leave the quiet of his helm.

  Her hands found the spearhead where it had lodged in that same hole the snapbow bolt had made at Malkan’s Stand, when progress had killed off his way of life. She did not try to remove it, just knelt there beside him, with her arms wrapped about his dented and bloody mail, and waited for the end.

  The spectacle of Varmen had not been enough to distract all of Salme’s defenders, and when Che and Thalric broke from the camp there were enough who decided that chasing a fleeing Wasp and Beetle through the forest at night was safer than facing up to a defiant Wasp by firelight. The arrows kept skipping through the air even as Thalric tugged at Che’s arm, forcing her to run at his longer-legged pace and brutally hauling her to her feet again whenever she stumbled. The pain was vicious, legs sore from so many days enforced riding now shooting fire into her with every step, but the enemy were ahead and above, and outpacing them no matter how fast Thalric dragged at her.

  ‘Can you fly?’ he called back to her.

  ‘Easier than run,’ she agreed. Not necessarily faster, she knew, for her kinden did not have it in them to be graceful in the air, but on the other hand . . .

  She gripped Thalric’s hand tight and took off at a tangent, wings unfurling from nothing and shimmering about her back. She was heading for the densest part of the forest, wheeling around tree trunks and between branches. There was an initial tug as Thalric resisted her, asserting his own judgement over hers, but then he let her guide him into the deeper, darker woods, with the Dragonfly-kinden at their heels.

  They had good eyes, the Dragonflies. In daylight they could hover high in the sky and still watch the details of the land far beneath. In the night, their sight was as good as a Mantid’s or Fly-kinden’s in piercing the dusk. Not as good as Che’s, though. To her gifted eyes, the night itself was banis
hed, the world picked out clearly in shades of grey, enjoying that rare Art of her people that let them see the world as their former Masters, the Moth-kinden, did. She was not graceful but she was sure, choosing her path through the upper reaches of the forest as though it were plain daylight. Now the Dragonflies’ swiftness betrayed them. They could not navigate as she could, so they must either slow down to her speed or risk losing her amongst the interlocking branches.

  Still, the arrows went on coming, in ones and twos. Thalric kept them busy in return, flashing back at them with his free hand, the fire of his sting going wide, scorching wood, warning them off.

  It was still not enough. Che had led them a dance, but she could see enemy ahead now, looping round while following their fellows’ voices. She dropped lower, hoping to cut underneath them before they realized she was quite so close.

  An arrow lanced through her calf and, in the sudden shock of pain, her wings were gone. Abruptly she became just a weight on Thalric’s arm, and he could not support them both. He would not let go, and the two of them spiralled helplessly down to the ground. Che’s leg gave way the moment she tried to put weight on it, and immediately Thalric was standing over her, both hands out and his sting lancing towards their attackers. Che saw one of the Dragonflies reeling back, the armour over his shoulder burned away. There were too many, though. Arrows hissed past Thalric in the poor light, but closer each time. Che saw an archer drop down to Thalric’s left, unnoticed, drawing a bowstring back with patient care, and using the flare of the Wasp’s own stingshot to guide his aim.