Dark Forge

by Miles Cameron

  All of the Nomadi, and all of Kallotronis’ men not used as gun crews, were in the rigging or along the bulwarks.

  He had the big port-side gun loaded, and traversed as far forward as the gun would bear.

  Ahead of them about three hundred paces, the great galley was firing. She had heavy metal in her bows and lighter guns in among the row benches, and she was under full sail, a daring move so close to shore.

  On the sand spit, hundreds of men and women were struggling to adjust to this new development, re-pointing big guns to hit the ships.

  Kallotronis fired.

  Through the far-seer volteia, the shot cut a terrible swathe through the human wheat. A big bronze gun was dismounted on the sand, and crushed the little people in its ruin.

  The Rei d’Asturas pivoted, her oars out now, and her bow artillery fired down the line of the enemy entrenchments.

  Kallotronis roared, and then the port-side gun fired again.

  Aranthur looked at the Arnaut through the smoke.

  “Grape,” he said with glee.

  Aranthur found the one-sided slaughter sickening, but he continued to perform his duties, which were mostly maintaining several unlinked workings.

  There was a scattering of occultae from the beach, easily parried by the various Magi aboard the ships.

  When the workers and gunners on the sand spit broke and ran, the galley hunted them down the spit. There was no cover, and the two ships moved along with leisurely precision, their marksmen and gunners wagering as the fleeing besiegers were massacred.

  “Must we?” Aranthur finally asked.

  Inoques was grinning from ear to ear as they sank a series of fishing boats that the enemy were clearly using to shuttle supplies. The boats were laden to the gunwales with fleeing people.

  “I suppose we could stop, and let them come at us tomorrow?”

  She glanced around to be sure no one was watching her. Aranthur sensed rather than saw her transference of power.

  The sole surviving boat sank. Its timbers rotted before Aranthur’s eyes, and so did the people in it.

  Inoques smiled smugly. “You make me feel young,” she said.

  He repressed a shudder. “But this is just murder.”

  “It’s all murder, love. And they’re just as dead whether I boil their blood or Kallotronis hits them with grapeshot.”

  “Most of those people are drafted slaves. They have no choice.” Aranthur couldn’t look away.

  “Yes. So?” She pulled his head close, like a lover about to deliver an erotic kiss. But instead, she whispered, “Do you imagine that slaves do not revolt? You lay your plans, and you are slow and careful, and in the end, you have your revenge. If these people want to save themselves, they should do as I do.”

  She kissed him, and let him go. She was inhumanly strong.

  Aranthur felt the ice go down his spine.

  Kallotronis fired again. They were deep in Antioke’s lagoon, almost against the shore, with their shallow draught. They were so close that when Kallotronis’ hail of grape struck the mob trying to cross the open beach that connected the sand spit to the mainland, Aranthur could see the spray of blood and hear the screams.

  Far off, in the low hills to the east, drums were sounding. A massive working launched from far off to the east, but it was slow and ponderous, a fire working at extreme range. Ectore swatted it down among the hills before it was ever a real threat.

  Now nothing could save the enemy troops fleeing the isthmus. Their fate was sealed by a troop of cavalry appearing from the city and rounding up the survivors, who surrendered immediately.

  The cavalrymen looked tired, and their horses were skin and bones. But they waved at the ships, and they were receiving cheers from the walls of a high black basalt redoubt that covered the sea gate on the landward approach. The cheers were thin, and sometimes resembled the screaming of gulls, and Aranthur’s feeling of unease deepened.

  The Vicar was older than Aranthur expected—old and tired, with deep lines around his mouth and a wispy grey-white beard that was stained from smoking too much stock. Vicar was an old rank, from the first empire, like Legatus. It implied a quasi-religious status, but Vicar Dukaz was, effectively, a senior Imperial Vanax and Aranthur’s dispatches were addressed to him.

  Now he sat at an enormous oak table covered in charts, maps, and loose papyrus and parchment, all endangered by the wax from twenty candles. They were deep in the maze of frescoed stone corridors behind the magnificent Temple of Light. There were still dead men, and women, in those corridors. There were flies everywhere, and sand, and the Imperial Army had a haunted look—not enough sleep, and not enough food.

  The Vicar was reading through Aranthur’s bag of documents.

  “Sophia!” he said, about forty heartbeats after finishing his empty compliments on Aranthur’s speed and dedication as a messenger.

  He looked up, and his old eyes had a fire in them that Aranthur hadn’t expected.

  “Get me the Chief Engineer, and Ippeas,” he said to his orderly.

  The man bowed. “Ippeas is in the trenches. Kallinikas is asleep.”

  “Fetch her,” the Vicar growled, and went back to reading.

  A slim young woman in a black breastplate over a very dirty buff coat came in, walking the walk of the exhausted, using her hips to control her weight.

  “Where’s the fleet?” she asked as soon as she came in. Then she stopped. “I know you. You were at my brother’s funeral.”

  She shook her head, as if to clear it. She had black marks under her eyes as if she’d taken a few punches.

  Aranthur bowed. “Myr Kallinikas.”

  “Sophia’s tits, was that just two weeks ago?” Kallinikas threw herself into a chair. “You bring word from Megara?”

  “No, milady. From General Tribane.” Aranthur pointed at the dispatches.

  Kallinikas nodded. “What’s she have left?” Her voice was flat.

  “She apparently won.”

  The Vicar tossed a scroll tube to Kallinikas and opened a second.

  “What the fuck?” the young woman spat, and seized the scroll. “When? Were you there?”

  Aranthur nodded. He wasn’t sure if he should salute, and he felt foolish.

  “I was there. It was… a brilliant victory.”

  “Based on your years of military experience, young man?” The Vicar rang a bell, and another officer came in, carrying a glass of wine. “You should hear this, Vardar.” But he smiled, and he looked younger, as if some of the care had come off him. “Gods above. You are a Centark? In the Nomadi?”

  Kallinikas glanced up. “Damme, Timos. You weren’t a centark two weeks ago.”

  The Vicar looked up again. “We’ve been sold a fake pig, Kallinikas. Vardar, read this. Ten thousand hells. What does it mean?” He turned. “Vardar, this young fellow is Timos, Centark in the Nomadi. He came here from the General, through Safi. Vardar is my chief aide.”

  Aranthur chose to salute. Vardar neither returned the salute nor bowed. He raised one eyebrow.

  Kallinikas was reading a third document. She looked at Aranthur.

  “Swear to me on my brother’s death that you saw a victory, Timos.”

  Aranthur went down on one knee and put a hand on his sword.

  “I swear on the death of my friend Mikal that what I say is true. The General, and the Capitan Pasha of Atti won a victory. We took or destroyed most of their host and took all their gonnes and all their baggage.”

  Vardar’s eyes narrowed. He was tall and thin and well dressed, in a uniform that had more gold lace than either of the other officers’.

  “This is not possible,” he said carefully.

  The Vicar shrugged. “I already believe him. There’s a codeword in these that was missing in the supposed Imperial dispatch, and I know Alis’ writing. Fucking hell! What’s going on at home?”

  Kallinikas looked up. “Tribane sent General Roaris home in disgrace?”

  “Yes, Myr.” Arant
hur nodded.

  She shook her head. “Only… Roaris seems to be in the War Ministry. We had Imperial dispatches from Megara. By pigeon, yesterday.”

  “Saying that the General was defeated in Safi and was withdrawing, having lost most of her army,” the Vicar said.

  “There must be some mistake,” Vardar said. “General Roaris is the Empire’s most loyal officer and her finest general.”

  Aranthur couldn’t stop himself. He sneered.

  “General Roaris declined to obey his orders and attempted to abandon the battle line.”

  “I doubt you understand what you saw,” Vardar said, “so I will forgive your treasonous talk.”

  Aranthur shook his head. “Syr, no difference in rank can stop me from saying this. Roaris attempted to sabotage the Imperial army. I was there, as a messenger on the staff. I heard his comments with my own ears. He was arrested, and sent home.”

  “You lie!” Vardar spat.

  The Vicar rose, a look of displeasure warping his face.

  “Silence, both of you. This serves no one. Roaris’ disgrace, however unlikely, appears to be a matter of fact, Syr Vardar. I would appreciate it if you apologised to Syr Timos.”

  Vardar drew himself up. But when he turned his head, he wore an unctuous smile.

  “I’m so sorry that such an outrageous… phrase escaped me, Timos.” He bowed. “I am afraid that my enthusiasm for General Roaris carried me away.”

  Aranthur bowed.

  “Where’s Tribane now, Timos?” Kallinikas asked.

  “Myr, she is withdrawing. She’s out of food, and needed to link up with the fleet.” He glanced around. “And when the sky opened—”

  The Vicar met his eye. “I know. It was bad here. We’d only just stormed the city six hours before. We had to fight step by step for the Temple—they were doing something and we interrupted it. Grisly work—lost ten Magdalenes and a hundred regulars and some knights in the fighting.”

  “How much food do your ships have?” Kallinikas asked.

  Aranthur shook his head. “Food? No idea.”

  The Vicar rubbed his dirty beard. “Any idea where the fleet is? Truth is, we rather hoped you were the fleet.”

  Aranthur shook his head. “There are two more great galleys in the Delta. But we haven’t seen the fleet. Only the black ships off the port.”

  Vardar spoke quietly. “So in fact, it does sound as if General Tribane lost.”

  Kallinikas sat back. She rubbed her eyes.

  “I still don’t get it. I came late to this party. The Chief Engineer was killed and the Arsenale sent me out to replace him.”

  “And she took the city,” the Vicar said to Aranthur.

  “Ippeas took the city,” Kallinikas said. “I just made it possible.”* She leant back again. “We were in the city six hours when the gods’ damned Dark Forge appeared in the sky, and about thirty hours when the first tendrils of a new army came over the hills. And we left them a complete set of siege lines.”

  The Vicar shook his head. “It never occurred to me to order our trenches slighted.”

  “This place is out of food and we were running out too.” Kallinikas shook her head. “Before I even arrived, the fleet left to take the General’s army to gods know where. There’s too much secrecy, too many compartments, and not enough planning and no logistics central command. We’re short of everything but enemy. Food, ammunition… We have a good sized artillery train and lots of tools. We have a few hundred cavalry horses as back-up food, and so far, our erstwhile opponents are astoundingly incompetent at opening a siege. You helped today—we’re making them afraid of occupying our old lines. I have all my diggers working to wreck our trenches opposite the black redoubt. I have a mine under the main sap.” She shrugged. “A mine with most of our powder in it. Really? We won’t last ten days. Maybe fifteen. I’m just playing the game to the end.”

  The Vicar nodded. “We only beat their army into this city by hours. And now they’ll take it back.”

  Aranthur made himself smile. “My lord, the General herself told me she was marching to relieve you. She’ll get here, probably with the fleet. And I’m going to guess that the fleet is loading her troops, and that’s why we haven’t seen them.”

  “Your words to Sophia’s ear,” the Vicar said. “This scroll here tells me that you were promoted Centark for heroism on the battlefield. Do you have further orders from the General?”

  Aranthur didn’t have an easy answer, and he didn’t know where to place his duties to Cold Iron against his military duties.

  “Vicar—” he began.

  “First, what troops did you bring?” Kallinikas asked. “Anyone?”

  “A dozen cavalrymen with our mounts,” he said. “And another company of Arnauts from Masr.”

  “Mercenaries?” the Vicar asked. “I’ll take them.” He leant back. “I don’t have many centarks, I have to admit.”

  “We lost a lot of officers in our assaults,” Kallinikas said. “Assaults have to be led from in front.”

  “I’d like you to command a force. It’ll be rag-tag and bobtail—probably your Arnauts—”

  “The Twenty-second City lost all their officers in the Storm. Only a couple of dekarks.” Kallinikas shook her head. “There’s about eighty of them, yesterday’s muster.”

  “Good. You’ll take the command?” the Vicar asked.

  “I have no command experience…” Aranthur said.

  “Come, come,” Vardar said, smiling. “No false modesty. This says you were promoted for heroism, and that’s exactly what we need.”

  The Vicar smiled faintly, as if he disagreed but didn’t need to say so.

  “Actually, I assume you can write and figure?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Aranthur said.

  “Good. I need you to count everything on those ships before you look at your scratch command. It’s more important.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes, centark. Everything,” Kallinikas said. “This city has been drained of everything from food to ink by a month of siege, and now we’re under siege again. Everything.”

  Aranthur hesitated. In his head, he could see it on Tribane’s huge charts of the western Area—the army he’d seen marching on the plains of Safi. The Imperial advance, pinning it in place; and then Tribane’s retreat, allowing that army to move west, to strike at…

  “Immediately, centark,” the Vicar said. “My people are hungry.”

  Aranthur moved through both ships for half a day in stifling heat and blind darkness. The Rei d’Asturas was well run and had excellent documents, but even aboard the great trade galley it took constant attention to list every useful thing. When he found an entire tier of powder barrels hidden in the hold he began to doubt the ornate bills of lading.

  Myr Comnas took him aside into her great cabin and served him wine.

  “There are things aboard that would be inconvenient for me and my investors to have discovered,” she said bluntly. “I’m pulling various nuts out of various fires, young man. I don’t need to have all my little secrets blared to the world.”

  Aranthur nodded, trying to imagine what he was supposed to do.

  “And I believe that we have a common interest.” She smiled thinly. “I’d like to make sure that nothing in hold four or the second tier of my lower hold is reported. Is that blunt enough? In exchange, I’ll make sure that no one ever sees your horses.”

  She put ivory spectacles on to look at her bill of lading.

  “I believe you and your Nomadi place an especial value on horses? The Vicar is butchering cavalry mounts for food.”

  Aranthur was reminded of Qna Liras’ comments on being a Lightbringer. A knife edge. This was corruption. And yet.

  Aranthur loved Ariadne. It was foolish and possibly ignoble, but the loss of Rasce had hit him hard. Ariadne deserved better than to end as stew. And he liked Comnas for her honest dishonesty.

  “Done,” he said.

  Inoques, still his wife, wa
s much harder to deal with than Myr Comnas. She made it clear that she resented his lists, and she followed him through the ship, muttering under her breath and at times obstructing him.

  “You can’t just take my gonnes and my powder,” she said.

  Aranthur shook his head. “I’m not taking anything. But the Imperial Vicar needs to know what you have.” He turned to her. “Listen. Tell me what you want to hide and I’ll hide it.”

  She shook her head. “Will you, though? I think I’ll just hide what I want to hide, and save you the soul-searching.”

  “He only wants to know—” Aranthur felt defensive, and he spat the words.

  “So he can seize it. Haras and I have a task—to get the Black Stone to Megara. This is a city under siege, and by your own account, it could fall. Let us take on water and run. And if we run, let’s have enough powder to load our gonnes, and enough gonnes to fight off the hoard of blockaders off the harbour mouth.”

  Aranthur bowed, but he kept counting.

  “Aranthur!” She grabbed the point of his bearded chin and swung his head around. She was very strong. “I am duty-bound to the Black Stone. I have to take oaths and vows very seriously. I promise you. I was designed and ensorcelled to be so.”

  Aranthur frowned. “I wish to save this city from falling to the Pure again. And also get you to Megara.”

  She leant against the damp partition in the forward hold.

  “And if you cannot do both?”

  “I will…” Aranthur looked into her eyes, which had a faint inhuman glow to them. “I will put the Black Stone first.” He shrugged. “I know how important it is.”

  “Listen to me, man. You do not know how important it is. If the Black Stone is broken, I will be free of this shell, which is, for me, good. But all my… kin… will also be free, and many among them are mere ravening maws of chaos. Or worse.” She leant close. “That stone is the cornerstone of your world, and without it, the Pure will seem benign.”

  Aranthur kissed her. “I have an idea.”

  She laughed. “So human.”

  But then she returned his kiss with a ruthless hunger.

  “We are still married,” she purred.