He stared at them, seeing city militia, artisans, shopkeepers, factors and merchants, dockworkers, porters, immigrant labourers, street-brawlers, black-marketeers and a handful of professional mercenaries.
You’ll just have to do, he thought, and then, If I had a command of Kessen marines we’d sort these bastards out.
And he turned, and the wall came down.
It was so close on evening, the sky darkening almost visibly. The Vekken had left it to the last minute, but their artillery had finally done its job. The widescale weakening created by the petard engines and the incessant pounding of the trebuchets and leadshotters had first knocked holes in the wall and now it was tumbling, great clots and sheets of stone peeling away until the wall before and to the left of him was dissolving into an utter chaos of tumbling masonry.
‘Go!’ he shouted at his men and, when they did not move, he went himself, trusting to their shame to carry them with him.
The rubble had barely finished shifting when he began to climb it, and for a terrible second he thought he was the only one there. Then there were shields to the left and the right of him, a motley collection of a dozen different styles, and now he was at the top of the breach, seeing Vekken soldiers hauling themselves up towards him.
‘Brace!’ he shouted, and ducked behind his own shield. Most of the men around him did the same, but there were always a few who were slow or who thought they knew better, and this time it proved fatal. Crossbow bolts slammed into his shield, three or four actually punching their square-sectioned heads through to gleam like diamonds in the backing.
Then Stenwold was at his shoulder, raising his crossbow so that it almost rested on Kymon’s shield and then pressing the trigger, and a score of crossbows fired with him, and two score more a heartbeat afterwards. The Vekken were climbing the rubble with their shields held high, but a dozen fell anyway, the close-ranged bolts sticking in their armour, and more fell amongst their crossbowmen following immediately behind.
Then the Vekken were making a final push up the shifting stones, and Kymon braced himself again, feeling his heart hammering out to him its message that he was too old for a battlefield by ten years at least.
He rammed his shield forwards into the first man that came his way, impacting so hard on the man’s own that the Vekken was sent tumbling back down. Another man took his place, though, one of a stream of Vekken soldiers that was pushing forwards up into the breach, and the serious business of killing at the blade’s point then began.
The harsh hammering of a nailbow sounded nearby as Stenwold’s bodyguard elbowed his way into the second rank and began to shoot the enemy indiscriminately in the face. Kymon was absorbed in his own trade, though. He was a trainer of men, a College Master, but most of all he was a swordsman. These Ants coming against him were soldiers, but he had always been something more than that, and he showed them. He taught them a dozen fatal lessons of the shortsword, his blade striking like a scorpion’s sting, forward, left and right, so that the soldiers advancing near him began to pay him more heed than his fellows, thus becoming easier prey for the men either side of him.
All down the line, though, the battle was shifting. The defenders of Collegium were laying down their lives. They were selling them dearly, giving no ground, and making the Vekken pay for each inch they climbed, but the Ants fought as an impeccable unit, while the defenders fought like a ragged line of individuals. Kymon could feel the tide turning, no matter how many he killed or how skilled his blade.
‘Hold!’ he bellowed. ‘Hold for Collegium!’ He was aware, when he could pause to think, that the defenders were still faring far better than they should, and that the Vekken were not fighting with that sharp edge that Ant-kinden usually possessed. There was something in their faces, something haggard and bruised, that was blunting them.
For a second the line swayed forwards again, whether from his words of encouragement or from the defenders’ own desperation. Ant soldiers went backwards, lost their footing, and it seemed that the advance might be halted, but then they gathered themselves, as Ants always did, and surged back up.
‘Hold!’ Kymon shouted once again and, miraculously, something went out of the Vekken advance. Abruptly the men attacking the breach were no longer backed by hundreds of others. The Ant attention had been somehow split.
He felt something strike him in the chest, clipping the rim of his shield. At the base of his vision he could see the quilled end of a crossbow bolt that had driven through his mail. It seemed to hurt far less than it should.
His line was failing, even though all the Ants beyond the foot of this hill of rubble were turning north, trying to move out of the way but constricted by their neighbours, their minds all obviously sharing the same focus.
Something struck him in the head, ringing from his helm, and he found himself falling back. no, Stenwold had him. Stenwold and his Sarnesh bodyguard, carrying him back.
‘The line. ’ he managed to gasp.
‘Hold still,’ Stenwold told him. There was more said but, although the Beetle’s lips moved, Kymon could hear none of it.
He drew his breath to demand that Stenwold speak up, but there was no breath to draw, and he understood that the bolt had pierced his mail, had pierced his lungs, perhaps. The sky above them was growing dark far faster than the oncoming night alone could have managed.
He sent his mind out, futilely, for some last contact with his own kind, but he was the last man of Kes remaining within the walls of Collegium, and when he died, even clasped in Stenwold’s arms, he died alone.
Stenwold looked to the line, then, but incredibly it still held, and the Ants seemed to be trying to retreat, and there was a great cheer that Sarn had come, Sarn had come at last. Stenwold rushed forwards, and in his mind’s eye there was a vast host of Sarnesh soldiers crowding the horizon, but instead he saw merely the shapes of Sarnesh automotives powering towards the breach in the wall. There were two still moving, and the caved-in wreck of a third some distance back, where the Vekken artillery had found it. The remaining two were driving in at top speed, though, their clawed tracks chewing up the dusty, bloody earth, and he saw the Vekken soldiers at the fore linking shields, bracing themselves ridiculously against the charge.
Artillery began bursting around them, and Stenwold saw one of the machines take a terrific blow that stove in one side and yet did not stop it moving. The machines were loosing their own weapons now, repeating ballista bolts smashing the Ant shield-wall full of holes. The Vekken had a siege tower out there, half-extended, and the undamaged automotive struck it a terrible blow that dented the whole front of the machine, but smashed the tower’s lifting gear totally, spilling men and broken machinery in its wake.
Stenwold wanted to close his eyes as they struck, but he could not — he could only stare. The Vekken artillery was smashing into its own infantry in its haste to destroy the automotives, and then the unstoppable momentum of the machines had taken them right into the main block of soldiers, and hundreds of the Vekken shieldmen were simply crushed beneath them.
The damaged machine was meanwhile slewing away from the city, one of its tracks jammed, and a moment later Stenwold saw fire break out around it, the fuel tanks for its engine catching light. The Vekken were fleeing from it, and it exploded, scything through them with jagged metal. The final machine was still driving for the breach, scattering the Vekken in its wake. A leadshotter struck it a glancing blow, spinning it round so that it was facing away from the city, and Stenwold saw Vekken Ants climbing onto it, swarming over it like their very namesakes, and prying hatches open.
With a final effort, the last of the Sarnesh Lorn detachment threw its tracks into reverse and began to climb the rubble backwards. The Vekken had clawed their way on board before it was halfway up, and Balkus grabbed Sten-wold’s arm and pulled him back, fearful for his safety.
Doctor Nicrephos was waiting for them, the frail old Moth looking impossibly out of place so close to the front line. ‘It is tim
e!’ he was shouting. ‘We must go!’
‘Anywhere but here,’ Balkus agreed.
Stenwold looked back to see the last automotive slew backwards into the breach, using its armoured length to bridge the gap in the wall. There was a thump and flare from inside that must be a grenade going off, and then the mauled machine fell still.
Beyond the wall the Vekken began to retreat to their camp for the night, but they would be back again in the morning, perhaps for the last time.
The Fly-kinden, Kori, ducked in and closed the door solidly behind him. In the moment it was open they could all hear the distant sound of exploding grenades.
‘Well this is lovely!’ he exclaimed. ‘I do hope the Empire sends us someplace nice like this again!’ He hooked his cloak off and cast it into the corner of the taproom. They had the taverna to themselves after the owner had gone off to fight.
‘You’ve taken your time,’ Gaved snapped. ‘We’d about given up on you.’
‘Big city, Wasp-boy, so even a man as talented as me takes time to get around it. And this whole Ant invasion gets in the way sometimes.’ Kori stretched. ‘Someone get me something to drink. I feel a need to toast the Emperor.’
‘Over a fire, no doubt,’ muttered Eriphinea the Moth. She slung him a wineskin, which he caught on the wing while hopping up onto a table.
‘Have you located it?’ Scyla demanded of him. The other two were also on their feet now, waiting for his report.
‘Relax, I’ve found the building,’ the Fly assured them. ‘Private collection? Barred and bolted, more like. No simple job to get in. Briskall, the old hoarder, he’s obviously gone to ground with all his treasures. Won’t come out until the siege is over, or the Vekken come to break down his doors.’
‘Can we break through his doors?’ Eriphinea asked doubtfully. ‘These Beetles and their locks. ’
‘I’m the knees with locks,’ Kori told her. ‘I’m the utter knees. I’m more worried about finding our trinket once we get in there.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Scyla said disdainfully, ‘we can’t miss it. That’s an imperial guarantee.’
‘Oh sure, sure.’
‘We’ll have no difficulties locating it,’ the Moth insisted flatly. That silenced them, and they stared at her. Her blank eyes gave them nothing back.
‘Would you care to qualify that, Phin?’ Gaved asked her.
‘Not in any way that you could comprehend,’ she said, not harshly but as a simple statement of fact. ‘He knows.’ She pointed at Scyla. The Spider, finding their attention on her, scowled.
‘She’s right,’ Scyla said shortly. ‘We’ll know it. Her and me.’
‘Well whatever,’ said Kori. ‘You sniff it out, and I’ll get us in, and the Wasp here can watch the door. We have the place and the means.’
‘Let’s go, then,’ Gaved said.
‘Let’s wait till dusk, shall we, so people don’t see us housebreaking,’ Kori suggested.
‘There’s a war on! Who’s going to care?’ the Wasp demanded.
‘Night-time is always better,’ Scyla said. ‘In war they kill looters out of hand, in my experience, which is just what we’d look like.’
‘Darkness is always best,’ Eriphinea confirmed.
The Wasp threw up his hands. ‘Nightfall it is,’ he said. ‘Always assuming we can even get the thing out of the city.’
‘Neither Ants nor Beetles fly, so they seldom watch for fliers,’ Scyla reminded them. ‘We got in. We can get out.’
‘Unless what they say about Ant women is true,’ Kori said.
‘And what is that?’ Phin asked him archly.
‘That they can fly non-stop for a whole night the first time you knock them up.’ The Fly grinned lewdly.
‘And you believe that?’
‘No, but I could have a lot of fun putting it to the test.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘And we’ve got a few pleasant hours to wait, assuming the Vekken don’t kill us. Anything to eat around here?’
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Stenwold asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ Doctor Nicrephos insisted. ‘You cannot understand, but I am driven — drawn — and I know not by what, but this is definitely the place.’
‘Keep calm, Doctor,’ Stenwold advised him, but Nicrephos was obviously anything but calm. Something had a hold of the old man, something that was now shaking him to his very bones.
There were four of them there loitering outside in the street and looking suspicious. Stenwold had brought Balkus, of course, and because he had gone home first to wash, because he could not bear the thought of Kymon’s blood on him, Arianna had joined them and was here too. He was not sure whether she entirely understood what was going on here but, when Stenwold had left for this errand, she had been tagging along behind him.
He spared her a fond smile, and resisted the urge to reach for her hand. ‘This is Master Briskall’s place,’ he said, belated recollection coming to him. ‘I knew I recognized it. He used to be an archivist at the College, but there were questions as to where some of the exhibits were disappearing to. ’
‘We have to go in,’ Nicrephos insisted. ‘Please, Master Maker.’
‘Are we expecting trouble here?’ Balkus hefted the nail-bow. ‘Want me to send Master Briskall a warning shot?’
‘No!’ Stenwold snapped. He did not understand why this whole venture felt like something criminal, but maybe Doctor Nicrephos’s furtive manner was beginning to infect all of them. ‘I am a Master of Collegium, therefore we’ll knock.’ He turned to say more to the Moth, but the grey-skinned old scholar was wringing his hands and silently baring his yellowed teeth.
‘Well if you want to do things the hard way,’ Balkus muttered, ‘I’ll get them out of bed.’
The big Ant went up to the reinforced door and his fist descended, a single booming thud that had the door already swinging open on its hinges. The others crowded forwards instinctively.
‘Oh-’ the big man said, and then swept back one arm, knocking all three of them, even Stenwold, off his feet. A second later there was a flash, and Balkus staggered back, tripped on Stenwold and sprawled out in the street.
‘That was a Wasp sting!’ Arianna cried out. Nicrephos was desperately trying to get up.
‘Balkus?’ Stenwold called in dismay.
The Ant sat up, a patch of his chainmail now fused together over his chest. ‘Bastard!’ he shouted, and unslung his nailbow.
‘They are trying to steal it!’ Nicrephos shouted in alarm. ‘We must stop them! Please, Stenwold!’
‘All right!’ Stenwold drew his sword, took a second to steel himself, and then flung himself in. The expected bolt sizzled past him and he hit the floor awkwardly, trying to roll away. A moment later the very floor seemed to shake as Balkus discharged his nailbow three times through the doorway, and then moved in to take cover behind a side-table whose exquisite vase he had just shattered. They were in an entrance hall with a door at the far end, and another in each of the long side walls. Stenwold saw movement ahead as the unknown Wasp drew back, and he took advantage of this. All of a sudden he was no longer tired, no longer the War Master, but just Stenwold Maker and free to make his own mistakes, with his own life as the only stake.
The Wasp, out of uniform in a long coat, reappeared with his hand spread, but Stenwold was already far too close and moving too fast for that to work. He had knocked the arm up before the man loosed his sting, and cannoned into him with enough force to send them both sprawling. Stenwold had the better of the collision and already had his sword stabbing down at his opponent. The Wasp twisted agilely out from under him so that the point of the descending blade chipped the floor tiles, but Stenwold managed a quick reverse and caught the man under the chin with his pommel as he tried to rise, sending the Wasp reeling backwards.
‘Beware!’ he heard Nicrephos croak. ‘Someone here has power!’
Stenwold smacked the Wasp across the back of the head with his sword-hilt, sending him back to the ground, and then
something snaked past him and caught about his throat. Its claw hooked sharply into his armpit, dragging him off balance.
A grapple! he realized, before seeing a stocky Fly-kinden across the room holding the other end of the rope he was just about to pull. Trying to brace himself, Stenwold got one hand on the rope about his neck, so that he was only pulled off his feet and not strangled with it. Then Balkus burst in with the others right behind him.
The rope tightened, the barbed tines digging into him, and then the Fly had a shortsword drawn and was flying straight towards him, even as Stenwold choked and tried desperately to dislodge the hook. Balkus was.
Balkus was staring strangely, his nailbow hanging loose in his hands. Stenwold shouted at him for help, but his face had gone slack, utterly devoid of expression.
The Fly was abruptly crouching on top of him, his sword clutched in both hands like an outsized dagger. Stenwold groped for him, seeing only a careful concentration on the man’s flat face. With one hand still on the entangling hook, Stenwold got his other hand on one of the Fly’s wrists. For a moment the man was pushing down against him, the tip of the sword descending until it touched Stenwold’s chest.
There was a woman pointing at Balkus, a Moth woman. She was approaching him with a dagger in one hand, but her other was directed at him, so that the power of her Art held him immobile as she approached. She was speaking words that Stenwold could not hear and the big Ant just stared back at her with a glazed expression. In the Moth woman’s hand the dagger’s glistening blade was smeared with something black. She was smiling all the while.
With a supreme effort Stenwold halted the sword’s further descent, locking his own arm and pushing up against the smaller man’s wrist whilst still hauling at the hook with his free hand. The Fly-kinden’s teeth were bared in a snarl and he was remarkably strong for one of his small kind. Suddenly he grinned and simply took up the sword one-handed, leaving Stenwold clutching the useless wrist of an empty hand. Stenwold yanked at it furiously, putting the man off his stroke so that the sword just clipped his ear, but then the Fly’s wings flashed out to steady him, and he drew the blade back for one final strike.
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