Dragonfly Falling sota-2

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  There was some shot coming from the city walls now and they put their shields up, feeling the metal shudder as crossbow bolts bounced from them. Their kind were onyx-skinned and pale-haired, huge and strong, but, though they were armoured like automotives, a keen shot with a crossbow could finish them, just like any mortal man.

  But their present enemies were creatures of the surface and the sun, while the Mole Crickets saw better at night than in daylight. They were closing on the walls.

  Their leader glanced left, seeing old Czerig with the ram and that the gates were almost broken through. No doubt it was important to the Wasps that all these holes be made in one go. He had no wish to learn strategy himself.

  A fistful of grenades suddenly landed all around them, dropped from an orthopter already burning, even as it passed overhead. An instant volley of explosions erupted about them, killing three and wounding another, denting and splitting shields. The remainder picked up their pace. Their orders were to go through the wall, they knew, and then through the men beyond.

  None of them would survive. So much seemed certain. The Mole Cricket leader braced himself as the great stones loomed before him.

  Pardon this violence, he said silently, dropping his spear and shield. His great chisel-nailed hands found the gaps between the stones, and he called upon his ancestors, called upon the Art they had given him. The stones within his grasp — and those his brothers grasped — began to soften and to shift.

  Totho found himself crouching against some of the fallen wall, frantically slotting another magazine in place and knowing he was almost out of ammunition. Skrill was behind him, her back to his, sending sporadic arrows up at the enemy. More and more Ants were coming to help hold the breach, and even Totho could see how the attacking force was being made to give ground, every inch of it bought in blood. Above them the cavalry had arrived, Ant-kinden soldiers riding great winged insects, cumbersome in flight as they buzzed ponderously through the darting Wasp airborne. Each flying beast had a big repeating crossbow mounted above its thorax and soon the newcomers were taking a savage toll of the enemy.

  Knowing that Salma was up there somewhere, Totho just hoped he would be safe, but he could spare him no further thought.

  Yet more Ant-kinden were coming to join the defence. Some had brought packs of giant ants under leash, drawn from the nest of tunnels beneath the city. The creatures were the guards and soldiers of the nest below, and another resource the city could barely spare, but they had stings and jagged mandibles. As soon as they were within sight of the enemy their leashes were loosed, and they scuttled towards the foe with jaws gaping in idiot threat.

  Totho tried to track another Wasp soldier while the man darted overhead, hands spitting golden fire. Then one of the Wasp heliopters rumbled past, and Totho noticed it was failing, one of its rotors torn and still. The ponderous, blocky machine limped through the air, tilting and tilting further. One of the great flying insects was clinging to its side, riderless, peeling at the metal casing with its jaws. Then it went out of sight over the rooftops, but Totho felt it come down, felt the ground shake and heard the sudden blast as its engine ruptured and its fuel exploded. Looking over the rooftops he saw the night was punctuated by a dozen red gleams where Tark was burning.

  There was a sudden sense of movement around him, Ants pushing into him, wordless but eyes wide as some unheard alarm went through their heads.

  A bright light, a sound — he was lifted up by a great hand. He heard Skrill scream and then. and then. Nothing.

  *

  Totho’s head was ringing, and he did not know why. He was aware of lying on some uneven surface and there seemed to be a great deal of noise and confusion going on. He sat up, clutching his head, and then saw what he was lying on.

  Bodies.

  He was lying on corpses, dead Ant-kinden from Tark, dead Wasp-kinden from the Empire. He stumbled to his feet, fell over almost immediately. His artificer’s coat was bloody and ragged, and he picked a metal shard from it curiously. All around him a lot of people were rushing back and forth, but he felt it was his duty as an artificer to identify the piece of metal he had found.

  It looked like the sort of fragment that would be left behind by an exploding grenade, he thought. A crude ball-type grenade, not one of the hatched-metal ones the Beetles made in Helleron.

  Awareness ran through him like a swordblade: Tark; the siege; the night attack. It was still going on. He must have been knocked flat by an explosion.

  ‘Skrill?’ he shouted, remembering how she had been there with him. ‘Skrill?’ but there was absolutely no chance of being heard. Even his own voice sounded muted and far away. Another thirty or forty Ant soldiers went charging past, trampling their own dead. Some stopped to shoot upwards, and he fell to his knees once again, looking into that asylum sky full of fighting men, beasts and machines.

  Hands found him and helped him to his feet. He leant back into them, feeling shaken and sick, the impact of the grenade still thundering in his head.

  ‘Che!’ he got out. ‘You found me.’

  ‘You better get your head on straight!’ And Che turned into Skrill, her voice high with fear. ‘Where’s your piece?’

  He looked around, but Scuto’s marvellous crossbow was now nowhere to be seen. He plucked another — a Tarkesh soldier’s — from its dead owner’s hand, dragging a quiver off a second body.

  They had moved further from the breach, he saw, but the gate itself was now open. Or rather there were splintered pieces of it left barely clinging to the hinges. There was the great engine there that had powered through the gateway before it had finally been stopped and disabled. Ants and Wasps were fighting there. Totho stumbled towards the machine.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Skrill shouted after him. She had lost her bow, he noticed. She should find herself a crossbow as he had, but of course she surely derived from some primitive old race that didn’t know about crossbows and how clever they were.

  The ramming engine was partly blocking the gateway. Wasp spearmen were trying to push through, but the Ants were holding them back. The engine itself looked really interesting, though, and that seemed the most important thing to Totho’s addled mind. As the Ants swarmed around it, he struggled to make his way to its battered head. It had not been intended for this use, he now saw. Some brilliant hand had cunningly reshaped it.

  There was a litter of bodies about it, mostly Wasp-kinden. Some were still moving, and he eyed them dully. The engine was slewed a little on its side, and he saw corpses in Wasp colours scattered there, but not actually Wasps. Artificers? Of course they were the machine’s artificers. The Wasps themselves had no respect for such skills.

  He reached out and, as the Ants continued fighting all around him, he put his back to the skewed machine and forced it up, working to free one of his brother artificers from under its weight.

  Skrill was yelling again, and he glanced around in time to see the city wall by the gate begin to shift. He suddenly felt so very calm about it, because he was right in the wall’s shadow, and there was nothing he could do about it in time.

  Stones began to bulge out of it, only one at first, and then in whole fistfuls. A man emerged: Totho could see his shape by the light of the fires, but it seemed impossible, for it was a man ten feet tall, armoured in great metal plates and wielding an eight-foot mattock. There were others behind him, and they lumbered out of the gap as still more Ants rushed in to engage them. Just before they clashed Totho was struck by the expression of hopeless misery on those giants’ faces.

  The huge creature in the lead swept his spade-headed spear around him like a club, flinging three or four of the Ants aside with ruined shields, but then the soldiers were on him, and their attack-insects as well. Totho watched with numb amazement, seeing how easily the giants fell. There were Wasps following behind them though, armoured Sentinels pressing forward, their plate-mail easily turning the swords of the defenders. Some dozen of them plunged into the Ant line and
shattered it, even as the last giant fell, and then there were savages bursting out along with them, shrieking and casting their spears. Behind them, in turn, came the armoured Wasp infantry, already lancing out with its stings.

  Totho felt the fallen man he held stir in his arms and he forced the ruined engine an inch further off him. The man clutched at him as Totho pulled him free, now seeing the wreckage the fallen engine had made of his legs.

  With conflict still all about him he dragged the dying man away, aware only that this was an artificer, and therefore a brother in craft.

  ‘My queen!’ the man cried. ‘I am done at last.’

  Totho lowered him to the ground. He felt cold and getting colder, but his eyes found Totho’s. ‘You, Lowlander. I am sorry-’

  Totho nodded, not knowing what to say. The man’s hands tugged at his coat, and perhaps there was some returning recognition there, on feeling the pockets lined with tools. ‘You must know. the air. airships! It is the end. I have. died for them, never to be home again. But the airships. you must guard.!’

  There was nothing more said, just one more death amidst so many.

  Salma dived through the sky like a mad thing, slashing at every Wasp that came near him, though missing most of them. The aerial forces of Tark were token only. They had their orthopters and their flying insects, but coming against them the entire sky was dense with Wasps.

  He pulled out of his dive on coming level with a handful of the winged ants. Ahead of them a mass of the Wasp savages was gathering like a cloud, spiralling upwards. Salma looked over to the lead Ant rider, and for a moment there was a touch of mindlink with him, two soldiers in perfect accord, as if he saw the man’s thoughts and passed back his own.

  You lead, we follow, was the man’s message, because Salma was vastly more at home in the air than they were.

  Sword extended, Salma kicked out towards the circling Hornets, sword extended, and he got close, very close, before they even saw him. Then crossbow bolts from the insect-mounted weapons started punching into the flight of Wasps and they scattered wildly. Salma veered to the left, seeing spears and bolts of light dash past him. Briefly something caught his eye about their formation, then he was lancing through them, bloodying his sword on at least three before turning to dance back towards them. The insects were on them by now, thrumming heavily through the air, jaws clacking at their nimbler opponents. The crossbows were never silent, funnel-fed bolts from their hoppers cracking out every second into the mass of the enemy. Then two of the insects were down and in a moment Salma saw why.

  The Ants were not the only airborne cavalry deployed above the field. Diving directly past his view came a giant wasp the size of a horse, with a soldier clinging gamely to its back. There was no crossbow, in fact no weapon at all, but the man’s hands yanked and tugged to get the monster to cooperate. It dodged and spun in the air and then fell on one of the ant-riders, lancing the insect he rode on with its sting, and crushing the rider’s shoulder with wedge-shaped jaws.

  Another buzzed past, spinning Salma in its wake. Its rider tried to let loose his energy sting, but the beast began bucking the moment he took a hand from its harness. And then he was gone, and Salma was slicing through the air towards the scattered savages.

  He saw what had snagged his attention before. There was a leader amongst them, a man in a spike-fronted helm bawling out orders that sent them hurtling across the city. Salma adjusted his angle, so as to come in from above and put his sword through their commander.

  Colonel Edric continued sending his Hornet soldiers out to loot and burn, to create as much confusion as possible, when one of the men pointed over his shoulder and began shouting a warning. Edric turned in the air, wings dancing, to see a man — a Commonwealer! — almost upon him. He threw himself aside, losing his hold in the air and dropping ten feet before his Art caught him, and the Dragonfly flashed past him, slicing open the soldier who had warned him. Edric was after the Commonwealer in a moment, knowing that a score of Hornets would follow faithfully, and then had to hurl himself backwards as a great dark shadow roared down from above. It was one of the Empire’s own heliopters, and for a second Edric’s entire sky was obscured by its metal-plated hull. He heard a bitter shearing sound as several of his men met the rotors, and then the machine was trying sluggishly for height, spilling out grenades in a non-stop cascade.

  He tried to locate the Dragonfly, saw the man again spearing towards him. Edric shot a blast of his sting, but his adversary flitted out of the way. The bulk of the heliopter was still clawing for height, and he dropped beneath it to give himself space to think and manoeuvre.

  But the Dragonfly was veering off suddenly, and Edric looked about to see what he was avoiding.

  It was a Tarkesh orthopter with red flames blazing from its cockpit. The heliopter shuddered in the air as it tried to correct its course, but the orthopter, even as its wing cables were snapping, shifted its aim lazily and struck against the bigger machine’s side, staving it in. A second later and one or the other had exploded, and then they both had, and Edric was hurled head over heels through the air and across the city.

  Feeling a wave of hot air roll over him, Salma caught himself in the air, still seeking out his target. There he was, blown almost up against the wall by the force of the two dying machines. He was right at the gatehouse, amongst the wrecked artillery. Even as the colonel got to his feet on the stones of the wall, Salma was stooping down on him.

  Barely in time, Edric saw him coming and dragged his sword from its scabbard. It was a Hornet piece, big and heavy-edged, and he slashed furiously at Salma as the Dragonfly fell on him, but Salma was a natural in the air, pitching aside to let the great blade pass him. His own lunge scored across the colonel’s side and then he had knocked the man down, and the two of them went tumbling end over end towards the broken edge of the wall. Edric was now on top and with one hand to his side he straightened up, raising his sword to split Salma’s skull. At the same time, Salma stabbed upwards, his blade punching through his opponent’s light armour and up to the hilt beneath the man’s ribs. The Wasp colonel’s sword fell from his hand, spinning through the air until it struck the ground far below. A moment later, Salma sent the man’s body heading in the same direction.

  Ten

  ‘What it is,’ Destrachis shouted above the wind, ‘is that the money goes to Collegium. That’s the way it works.’

  Felise clung on grimly, trying to catch his words as the rushing air swept them past her.

  ‘If you do well for yourself in Helleron. ’ he continued, quite happy, apparently, to carry on this conversation at the top of his lungs, ‘if you own a string of factories, make a mint, then you retire to Collegium. That’s where the respectables live, and having money like that buys you a lot of respectable, you see?’

  She nodded, still trying to understand. Their automotive jolted at that point, some join or flaw in the rails, and she nearly lost her grip. If she fell now, though her wings would catch her safely, she would never catch up with this machine again. Nobody could fly as fast as the engine was propelling them.

  ‘And so,’ Destrachis went on, ‘there’s a market for luxuries. The Collegium rich like to flaunt it, same as everywhere. Spiderland goods come in up the coast, but for anything from the north, there’s a real battle to be the first with it. And that’s’ — he waved an arm perilously around, having hooked onto the automotive’s side with the other — ‘where this comes in.’

  The machine they were riding was mostly open cage-work. The middle section was for the cargo, five or six heavily padded crates lashed together on a low-sided hold. At the front was the engine, which had originally sounded like thunder rolling across the hills to the west of Helleron, but the sound of it was now mostly merged with the wind. Parts of it glowed red-hot, while other parts were constantly being tightened by the three-man crew of artificers. It ran on firepowder and seemed, even to Felise who knew nothing about such matters, like a dangerous beast waiting for
its moment to attack.

  At the back of the machine was the meagre space the thing set aside for its crew. Two men were forward now, keeping the engine in tune. One was watching some dials and gauges that were wholly occult to her. Behind him, Destrachis and Felise clung on tight.

  They were close-mouthed, tough-looking men, those three. Black Guild artificers, contraband runners, Beetle-kinden, all of them, and loosely allied to the fiefdom that Felise had served so well by eliminating the Last-Chancers. They were, above all, supreme opportunists, as this venture showed.

  ‘You see, this was going to be the big business,’ Destrachis further explained. ‘The Iron Road from Helleron to Collegium by a direct and unbroken rail, instead of having to go the square way round Sarn. Only they got the rail finished and then some fool blew up the engine. Thing called the Pride, most expensive automotive ever made, and they blew it up. You’d think someone else would step in, but no, the fellow who owned the Pride has the contract, and he’s blasted if he’s going to let anyone else get the first ride, so he’s having a new engine built, and meanwhile all these miles of shiny rails are just sitting here, doing nobody any good! So you see, these lads decided to jump at the chance. They tell me it’s easy enough to make an automotive run on rails, and once it’s running on the rails it goes a lot faster than if it wasn’t.’ He was grinning wildly, his hair streaming and, in the face of that, she had to smile back. ‘So these lads cornered the market!’ he finished, and she nodded to show she understood.

  ‘I love machines!’ he told her. ‘They fascinate me!’

  ‘But you can’t, really,’ she called back, and she knew that, downwind as she was, her words would not reach him. He read the remark in her face, though, and his grin merely widened.