War Master's Gate (Shadows of the Apt)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  I will destroy you, Seda declared, and the Beetle locked eyes with her, her gaze giving not an inch. The last time they had clashed, Seda had indeed nearly destroyed her, but they were both stronger and more skilled now. Any battle between them would not be decided so easily.

  Looking into that hatefully familiar face, though, the expected rush of loathing or even of fear, did not come. In that dream of Argax, standing before the barrow of Argastos, Seda entertained the strange thought that, under other circumstances, here was the one creature in the world that might truly understand her. A sister? Save that all her siblings were dead, and the last practically by Seda’s own hand.

  Still there remained the uncharacteristic and melancholy thought: I could have used a sister.

  Fifteen

  The land lying south of the Etheryon–Nethyon forest, the great road that General Roder’s Eighth Army would have to travel, had been turned into an invisible labyrinth.

  Both sides were still awaiting the outcome of the clash within the forest – at the mercy of whoever became the winners there, who could then strike with impunity at either the Ants or the encroaching Wasps. Neither side was letting the dust settle, though. Roder had his orders, and Tactician Milus had sent his city’s forces to meet him.

  But not in pitched battle, because the Sarnesh had already suffered a costly defeat against the Eighth at Malkan’s Folly. For now, they maintained faith in their forces and their allies within the forest, hoped for a better opportunity for their great stand, and held the bulk of their soldiers back at Sarn itself.

  Imperial flying machines still made their forays that far – Spearflights and a handful of Farsphex making the Sarnesh nights a nerve-racking lottery of fire. The Sarnesh air force itself could coordinate impeccably in the air, but their machines were old: orthopters whose design had scarcely changed in eight years. They could have held their own against those bulky old heliopters the Empire had relied on at the Battle of the Rails, but even the benefit of their mindlink barely made them the equal of the fleeter Spearflights. Inevitably, the Farsphex smashed them from the air.

  On the ground, Milus’s tactic was to slow down the Empire as much as possible, hoping for a flanking attack from the Etheryen to the north, or even from a victorious Collegium to the south. He was no fool, Milus, and he could see that his people were right where the metal met. The future histories of the Lowlands were his either to write or be relegated to, depending on the decisions he now made.

  Since the Imperial Eighth had begun its advance from Helleron, from before either the fortress fell at Malkan’s Folly or the Nethyen Mantids turned on their own kind, the Ants had been at work on the overgrown, broken ground south of the forest. Wasp scouts would have spotted neither earth-moving machines nor large working parties, but instead there had been small bands of soldiers, camouflaged as best they could. Some had been engineers, others snipers picked for their skill with a snapbow. They had their own scouts as well, and a scattering of bold Fly-kinden for long flights and night work, but their most valued men and women had been the sapper-handlers.

  Theirs was an ancient trade, and their tool was known as the First Art. Long, long ago, when the lives of men had been short and cheap, at constant hazard from the beasts they shared their world with, some few of them had found a way to reach across the chasm between man and insect, and so become the first kinden. At first they had only begged, but much later, there were negotiations, demands, orders. Nowadays that old Art was a rare thing, but ascendant mankind still lived alongside the beasts and drew inspiration from them in the form of Art. There had always been tunnels undermining Sarn, but not dug by the hands of men.

  In that contested country east of Sarn, a band of Ants was crouching in a dugout, each of them touching the mind of their officer, whose periscope was even now spying out the Imperial advance.

  Leading edge is composed of alternating blocks of infantry – close-packed, armed with spear and snapbow . . . and war automotives. I see several of the new design, those woodlouse-looking machines. Artillery, supplies and non-combatants too far back to see. The words were acknowledged by a Sarnesh relay post to the west and would be passed on, together with an approximation of what the officer saw, all the way back to the tacticians.

  I see a skirmish along the line, seven hundred yards thereabouts. One of the others – Pallina’s squad. The Ants reached out their minds to hear the distant echoes from their doomed comrades.

  Light Airborne on their way, twenty seconds, concluded the officer, taking the periscope from his eye. I trust we’re all ready. His face was without expression, but the others felt his humour. It was a good man to fight alongside, he who could look upon extremity and laugh.

  They were going to die, to a man: all the little squads that Milus had posted out here were ‘lorn detachments’, suicide details. They would spend their lives in slowing down the Wasps.

  For Sarn, came the answering thought, first from one, then from all of them. Sarn the mother of us all!

  Scorvia. The officer focused his attention on their one sapper-handler. The woman looked at him for a moment, her mind elsewhere and tainted with the alien feel that always came with her particular Art.

  Oh, ready, Officer, Scorvia confirmed. For the mother of us all.

  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 wa
s 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 arrived, 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.’