The Light Airborne were coursing overhead, and the Ants huddled deeper in their dugout, almost holding their breaths in their wish to deny the Wasps any warning.
The waiting, after they had passed, strung them taut as wires, but the officer would not risk the lens of his periscope being spotted. They relied solely on sound and vibration — and on Scorvia, who had wider senses at her disposal.
The engines of the Wasp automotives could be heard now: a low grumbling as they idled at walking pace to keep alongside the squads of infantry. The skies overhead were busy with airborne and some few flying machines.
And Scorvia looked up and thought, Now.
One of the engineers lit the fuses for the mines, and seconds later the ground around them shook as the charges exploded beneath the approaching Wasps. There were shouts and cries, but the Ants were already on the move, piling out of the dugout with snapbows and grenades ready to hand.
They found a light automotive kicked wholly on to its side by the blast, its undercarriage blackened and cracked, and a squad of infantry still picking itself up, half a dozen of them dead on the ground. With brutal, desperate efficiency the Ants attacked, for all that there were only six of them against an army. Every dead Wasp meant one fewer to storm the gates of Sarn. Snapbows spat, and the officer and engineers threw grenades into the midst of the reforming enemy squad, stretching surprise as far as it would take them.
And further, too, for the ground all around the Wasps was rippling now, hard bodies thrusting their way clear of it, glistening black with serrated mandibles agape, crooked antennae tasting the scent of the enemy. The Sarnesh had brought their beasts to war.
A score of them only, but they were half the size of a man, dark-shelled ants tearing themselves from the ground in response to Scorvia’s thought and hurling themselves at anything that was not their own. Their jaws clamped onto legs and arms, piercing and crushing, even severing hands and feet. Their abdomens stabbed in to sting, driving searing acid into the bodies of their foes. Ferocious, almost mindless, whipped to a rage by Scorvia’s inciting commands, they tore the Wasp soldiers apart even at the cost of their own lives.
Another automotive was already coming close, and the soldier atop it let loose with a swivel-mounted rotary piercer, raking the mass of ants and not caring much if he hit his own allies. The weapon had been designed for a fixed position, though, and its firepowder charges rattled and bounced it around on its pivot, sending most of the bolts wide. Then the Sarnesh officer got his last grenade to drop neatly onto it, blowing apart weapon and crewman alike.
Snapbow shot was coming at them from both sides, more infantry squads now stopping to deal with them. The entire leading edge of the Eighth was falling out of step. It all meant delay, blessed delay, and more time for Sarn.
A bolt caught Scorvia in the chest, punching through her armour, but her scuttling charges were now unleashed, and they would fight until they were all slain, blindly attacking anything of the Empire’s, whether men or machines.
There was another automotive approaching, and the officer saw that it was one of the new kind: those segmented, armoured killers with their single leadshotter eye. It had a pair of rotary piercers set low in front, just right for mowing down soldiers on the ground, and a double hail of bolts ripped into the ants, and into the remaining Sarnesh, too. The last engineer managed to lob a grenade that exploded perfectly against the machine’s curved hull but barely scratched its plating. Then piercer-shot found the man and his mind winked out.
It was better that way, for they already knew that if the Wasps caught any enemies alive, their leader was having his captives impaled on the crossed pikes, a slow and agonizing death. General Roder had explained this to his first victims — the words linking their way back to the other Sarnesh, mind to mind. He wanted the broadcast pain of the few to erode the morale of the many.
Ignorant fool, the officer thought, even as he discharged his snapbow for the last time. The strength of the many combats the pain of the few. He dragged out his sword and ran towards the great armoured machine’s side, keeping out of reach of the rotaries. Perhaps there is a weak spot.
He heard a rattle, as the snapbow barrels set between the plates were triggered, and a bolt tore through his leg, making him stumble. He looked at the nearly sheer side of the machine towering above him, seeing an injured ant trying to climb it, jaws scraping futilely at its metal flank.
He snatched up a Wasp snapbow from the ground, no time to check if it was loaded, and hauled himself to his feet, for a moment leaning against the very machine that had wounded him. He levelled his stolen weapon at the oncoming infantry. The trigger was loose, the air battery uncharged, but the threat had achieved its purpose. Five or six of them shot at the same time, at least two hitting their mark.
For the mother of us all, he thought, and died secure in the knowledge that he had done his best.
Balkus had made his report to the Monarch’s advisers as soon as he got back to Princep Salma. Princep loved its Monarch, the Butterfly-kinden woman named Grief, but the half-built city-state was run by those beneath her, who ensured that the food came in, the waste went out, and who made all the little, vital decisions that would let Princep grow eventually into its full strength.
There had been a lot of frightened faces, as he made his report. Princep had been founded by refugees from the last war — the dispossessed, the impoverished, escaped slaves and reformed criminals. When the Dragonfly-kinden, Salma, had united them, he had given them hope and dreams. Even the presence of his lover, Grief, had sufficed to let those dreams flower. They were working on the perfect city, building by building, law by law. They had imported Collegiate thought and Commonweal aesthetics. Here, they had a place for all.
The one thing that they had not found a place for was war. They had more philosophers than soldiers, it seemed to Balkus, and those men of the sword who had come there did so mainly because they were tired of fighting. The fact that Balkus himself had been made their military commander — a renegade Sarnesh nailbowman whose chief credential was that he had once known Stenwold Maker — showed just how unfit they were for conflict.
He had his troops arrayed before him, and they were a ragged and sorry lot. He had a score of Dragonfly-kinden in their glittering mail that were his elite — a gift from the distant Monarch of the Commonweal to her perceived sister. Beyond that he had a couple of hundred volunteers who formed his militia, better suited to keeping a degree of order on the streets than actually fighting. About half were Roaches, the strong sons and daughters of the influx of that kinden that had come to Princep because it was one of the few places in the Lowlands that welcomed them. The rest were a ragbag drawn from the sweepings of every city from here to Capitas.
They were brave, he knew, and would do anything he asked of them. Really, for what they were, he could not have asked for more. They would perhaps have given an equal number of the Light Airborne a decent run, but Balkus somehow doubted the Empire would send its army out in such convenient pieces.
He felt that he should make some sort of inspiring speech, now that he had them all together in one place for once, but he was no good at that. Besides, he had a feeling that any speaking today was going to be left to others. The Sarnesh had come to talk to Princep.
When Milus had dropped from the sky with a handful of orthopters, Balkus had assumed he would speak to the Monarch and her council in private, but instead the Sarnesh tactician had declared that his words were for the whole city to hear. Nobody much liked that, but the Sarnesh were their allies and Milus was politely immovable on this point. So it was that Balkus had drawn up his fighting men for inspection, and a large crowd of Princep’s residents had slowly gathered around them. They were in what would have been the square before the Monarch’s palace, if only the place had been finished, but at least there were gates, and some steps before them from where the Monarch would address her people.
Even as he watched, the woman herself arrive
d, with a few of her advisers and some attendants in tow. She was still a striking woman, although after Salma’s death her skin had lost its once-bright colours and faded to the drab grey of a Moth-kinden. She carried herself with an air of loss that was inviolable — Balkus had witnessed the demands of haughty diplomats crumble to ash before it. A figurehead, yes, but a useful one to have.
Many of her advisers were Roach-kinden, and chief amongst them the old white-bearded man who served as chancellor, but there was a new face there, too, that the Sarnesh would surely not like much. That Wasp-kinden man had been Imperial ambassador to Collegium until recently, Aagen by name, but he had deserted when the new war broke out and had come to Princep. Balkus had not seen much of him, but he seemed to have become a favourite of the Monarch.
A small hand tugged at his belt, and he looked down to see Sperra, the Fly-kinden woman who had come to Princep with him. Her face was solemn and drawn, and with good reason.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he warned her.
She cocked her head to one side. When Sperra was last in Sarn she had been present for the assassination of the Ant queen, and they had not been slow to use their interrogation machines on her to prise out what they thought she knew of it. ‘I don’t trust the bastards,’ was all she said — and that was something of an understatement.
‘Well, you know I don’t,’ Balkus pointed out, ‘but they are our allies, and they’re better than the Empire, who they’re fighting right now on our behalf. They’re entitled to come and ask for help.’
‘So you’ll take your two hundred and twenty and go take on the Wasps, will you?’
He shrugged. ‘Not for me to decide. The Monarch’s people will make the call — anyway, here are the Sarnesh.’
Tactician Milus had only a small escort of a half-dozen Ants, but he strode into the square as though he owned it, and the crowd parted for him automatically. Many here had come to Princep from the foreigner’s quarter in Sarn, and remembered what it was like there. Life for a foreigner in Sarn was quiet, ordered and peaceful, and there was an entire city-full of mindlinked Ants who made sure that anyone who might change that situation was swiftly dealt with.
Milus stopped in the square’s centre and looked about at his audience, an amiable smile carefully poised on his face to suggest that he was encouraged by what he saw.
‘Tactician,’ the Monarch addressed him and, as always, Balkus was impressed by the power she could put into a simple word, the presence she could exude when she wished. Art, he guessed, filling out each sound to command the attention. Perhaps she did not even know she was doing it.
The Ant leader bowed, not really a natural motion for a man in armour, but he did his best with it. ‘Great Monarch of Princep Salma,’ he replied, pitching his voice so as to carry to everyone. Most Ants did not have a good-parade ground bellow, having no need of it amongst their own, but Milus had plainly practised. ‘I am here to seek your help.’
Good start, that. But Balkus found himself out of step with everyone, already tense and sweating whilst the crowd all about the square nodded and murmured. He put a hand on Sperra’s shoulder and she looked up warily, noting his expression.
What have I. .? There had been nothing conscious received from the minds of the Sarnesh, but Balkus was picking up on something, some harsh undercurrent that belied Milus’s mild expression and tone.
‘We know we have Sarn to thank for many things, just as they themselves have much to thank our founder for,’ Grief replied, august and dignified. Of course, Sarn had tolerated this new neighbour, and had sheltered many of the refugees during the last war, but likewise Salma and his warriors had died for them, striking a blow against the Imperial Seventh that had allowed the Sarnesh to defeat them at Malkan’s Folly. The first Malkan’s Folly, anyway. They were even, therefore, was what Grief was saying.
‘The heroic acts of Prince Salme Dien are not forgotten,’ Milus acknowledged. ‘Believe me, I was present when our Royal Court clasped hands with him, and were it not for his sacrifice we might all be wearing the black and yellow right now. But the Empire is tenacious, it seems. You know that they are on the march again, for the news has reached you even here.’ And a slight edge, just for a moment, as Balkus tried to glean something from the Sarnesh minds, finding them all closed tight to him.
‘The Eighth is already closing on my city,’ Milus explained. ‘Our soldiers do their best to slow it, but we cannot stop it. There will come a battle, and it may take place outside the very gates of Sarn.’ His manner indicated frustration, a bold man with his hands shackled — a calculated performance, like the rest, Balkus knew. ‘The Collegiates face the Imperial Second, and we cannot help them, nor they us. They have even taken on troops from Vek, their old enemies. Can you imagine that? And our Mantis allies are suddenly tearing into themselves, of no use to anyone. So Sarn calls upon Princep Salma. You must know we look upon you as our child, and every child must aid its parent in time of need.’
Oh, that’s a good speech, Balkus acknowledged, and yet the feeling of dread would not go away.
The Monarch and her advisers had discussed matters, of course, and now she nodded graciously and said, ‘We have little armed strength in Princep but, of course, we shall send our warriors to help you.’ Her gesture took in Balkus and his few, as he had expected. ‘For the rest, we can find some engineers, artisans, some scouts-’
‘Forgive me, Monarch, but Sarn is already well supplied with those,’ Milus broke in, and now his voice toughened up.
At Balkus’s side, Sperra pushed closer, staring at the Sarnesh.
Grief did not flinch at being interrupted thus, but even as she opened her mouth to continue, Milus was speaking over her again.
‘We need soldiers. We need bodies on the ground, spearmen, archers, swordsmen. They will not be Sarnesh, but even so they can hold ground, attack when ordered or man walls. I need men to carry stretchers and bring ammunition to our artillery. I need your surgeons and healers, even your cooks and cleaners. I’ll take your whores, even.’ And by now there was nothing amiable left in his face or voice, and he was staring straight at the Monarch as he uttered those last words.
A silence descended on the square, all eyes looking to Grief. When she finally spoke, her words were tight with outrage.
‘This is not Sarn, and you are here as our guest, nor our master. Salma-’
‘Is dead!’ Milus broke in. ‘And he died like a soldier. Did he do that so that you could all live like peasants? Well perhaps. I don’t know Commonwealers. But listen to me. I am not here as your guest. I am here as your guardian. Sarn is fighting to keep the Empire from your doors, and, yes, you will send your soldiers.’ After all, they can stop snapbow bolts as well as anyone.
And that last thought came straight from Milus’s mind to Balkus.
‘But I look around me and I see so many able bodies,’ the tactician went on. ‘And I will have them. Even the placid Beetles of Collegium have been conscripting their citizens into the military. How would I be serving my city if I overlooked this great resource at our very doorstep?’
He looked about him, before locking eyes with the Monarch again. ‘Let me tell you what will happen. You will send me a minimum of fifteen hundred men and women, armed and armoured as best you can — and we’ll make up the difference in equipment. We have the surplus. You’ll send me a further five hundred, along with them, who have useful skills of some sort — craftsmen, doctors, engineers, as you say — not philosophers or musicians or any such nonsense. And, no, this is not a matter for your committees. I am telling you how it will be.’
There was an angry rumble amongst the crowd, but he quelled it with a glare.
‘And if you do not,’ he went on, ‘then, if Sarn survives, you can be sure that we will remember that you held back on us in our time of need, and in the war’s aftermath you will see us again, and we will not be coming as your guests. If you live safe in Sarn’s shadow, then you will fight at our call. And, of cou
rse, if my city should fail for want of help, then you can preach your philosophy next to General Roder’s Eighth Army and see how far it gets you.’
He waited for Grief to speak, but the Monarch’s words had been blown away.
‘And some specifics. Him.’ He pointed at the Wasp, Aagen. ‘He’s an Imperial diplomat and officer’ — and, as Grief rallied herself to speak, he hurried on — ‘and, yes, he’s a renegade. All the better. I want a full report on everything he knows about the Eighth and its capabilities. I want him sent with your people, too, to advise on Imperial procedures. And if I don’t see him there. then my interrogators will come and get him. You don’t know how much slack I’m giving you just by not taking him away with me right now.’
Balkus thought that a small, hard smile crossed Milus’s face, but that was just within his mind.
‘And I won’t have a traitor to my city commanding your troops. You’re to replace him. Of all your armed might, his is the one face I don’t want to see. Traitor once is traitor ever.’
‘Bastard,’ whispered Sperra. ‘Pox-ridden son of a whore. What the pits are we going to do?’
Balkus could already see it on the faces of the Monarch’s advisers, even if the woman herself remained impassive. We’re going to do just what they ask, because they’re right and we have no damn choice. He wondered if they could even manage to scrape together fifteen hundred fighters from Princep’s motley population.
‘Well, seeing as I’ve just been relieved of command,’ he whispered to her, making sure to keep his mind shut tight, ‘I’m cursed well going to go tell Sten Maker what’s just happened here, and I suggest you go with me.’
‘Sir, this feels too much like a trap to me,’ Colonel Cherten murmured, as they descended the uneven path towards the beach.
General Tynan frowned at his intelligence officer. ‘You don’t trust our allies? You’ve had some evidence that they’re not sound?’
Cherten’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, General, but they’re Spiders, and they are renowned for playing both sides. If something happens to you-’
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