War Master's Gate (Shadows of the Apt)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  ‘Put me down, you bastard, I can run as good as anyone.’ But she said it so quietly, mumbling through a mouthful of blood, that he didn’t hear her.

  ‘General, we’ve got them on the run!’

  Tynan regarded Colonel Cherten narrowly. ‘Don’t give me that nonsense. They’re Mantis-kinden.’ The problem with the Intelligence Corps is that they underestimate everyone else’s. ‘What’s the situation?’

  ‘The saboteurs have fled, at least,’ Cherten amended. ‘All key resources are now under our control.’ Just then, another explosion retorted like thunder from somewhere in the camp and, under other circumstances, Tynan would have laughed at the timing. Instead he forcibly restrained himself from punching the colonel.

  Hurriedly, Cherten went on. ‘The Mantids are still in the camp. Most of them are gathered up now, and the Spider-kinden are holding them. We’re mopping them up right now – infantry and airborne squads have surrounded them. They’re fighting to the last, of course, but with snapbows and stings we have them outmatched.’

  And what bloody cost has this night brought us? ‘I want a full report of the damage: lost men, supplies and siege—’

  Just then a sergeant landed nearby, stumbling slightly as he saluted. His armour was streaked with blood. ‘General, sight of airships coming in.’

  And their damned orthopters too, of course. And we’ve formed up in nice big groups and there are fires all over camp to light their way. ‘Send out the order: break up every unit into skirmish spread, if they’re not actively fighting. And get me – Major Oski!’

  The Fly had been skulking about a moment before and now he appeared at Tynan’s elbow as though brought into being simply by the use of his name. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want everything you have aimed at the sky – I know their Stormreaders are too fast for you, but just make the air as busy as you can. Make their lives difficult.’

  The Fly saluted, wings flashing from his shoulders to carry him away.

  ‘Now—’ Tynan started, and an arrow struck Cherten in the chest, bouncing off his armour but knocking him down. Tynan’s blade cleared its sheath, without need for thought, and his left hand jabbed out at a target he had not even consciously seen as the Mantids arrived.

  ‘Defend the general!’ someone shouted, but Tynan was too busy defending himself. His sting crackled, catching the onrushing woman a glancing blow that barely slowed her, and then he had caught her spear with his sword, beating it away as she raked him with her arm-spines, which squealed across his mail. One of his aides got a sword into her then – too close to risk a sting – but the Mantis woman seemed barely discouraged. There was clear knowledge in her eyes that she was fighting the Wasps’ leader.

  She struck him in the chest with the shaft of the spear, trying to knock him back far enough for her to ram the point into him, but he flailed out and somehow seized her by the wrist. Furious, she pulled back, but a tug of war was not what he intended. The fierce heat of his sting charred her flesh to the bone and she hissed – such a small sound – and rammed the spines of her other arm at his neck, abandoning the spear altogether.

  His aide got his sword into her back then, and practically levered her off his superior, while all about there was fighting. Surely there were no more than eight or nine Mantids broken from their main force, but they had struck the mother-lode of enemy officers to kill. Cherten was on the ground, one arm running with blood but still lashing out with his sting at any target that presented itself, and Tynan saw the Red Watch captain, Vrakir, fighting savagely with a Mantis swordsman, matching his enemy for three fierce exchanges of blows before getting a sting in that sent the man reeling back with his chest on fire.

  Another Mantis came for Tynan with one of those bladed gauntlets, but by that time his staff had rallied, and a snapbow bolt cut the enemy down before he got close. In another moment the Spider-kinden were there, striking from the same direction the Mantids had issued from. Tynan saw Mycella’s bodyguard literally hurl himself into a pair of them, slender sword flashing, his shield and mail warding off their return strikes, and yet he moved nearly as fast as they did, for all the weight of metal he carried.

  Then he saw her, striding through the fighting like a queen, the rapier in her hand stained with blood. Despite the attack, and despite the losses he knew his army must have suffered, the sight of her brought a smile to his lips.

  The airships were coming for them. Straessa could see them descending, so silent and peaceful, as if they belonged to another world entirely, while behind her the Wasp camp burned and the fighting continued. One of the Stormreader pilots must have been watching for the first bombs exploding, then gone to fetch the transport straight away.

  ‘Let me down!’ she insisted, somewhat louder and clearer now. She was aware that some of her people were turning to shooting behind them. ‘Curse you, Gereth, put me down. I need to fight!’

  ‘With what?’ he asked. There was a flash and a boom from ahead, and she realized that some of the airship crew had brought smallshotters up to the rails and were now loosing, randomly into the enemy camp to discourage pursuit.

  With supreme effort she wrestled herself out of Gerethwy’s grip, then had to lean on him when the ground proved unexpectedly uncooperative beneath her feet.

  ‘Wounded this way!’ called a shrill voice – te Mosca’s surely. ‘Wounded to me!’

  ‘Wounded here!’ Gerethwy shouted, and tugged at Straessa’s arm.

  ‘I’m not wounded!’ she snapped. ‘Just bit my tongue and a bit dizzy,’ but he was dragging her onwards anyway, and he was stronger than she was.

  She tried to form a picture of the retreat – there was a scatter of Collegiates all over, on the ground and some in the air, making for the airships with all the speed they could muster, and some pausing to help those who really had been cut up. The numbers looked surprisingly hopeful. Did we actually get away with it?

  ‘Here with the wounded!’ Sartaea te Mosca called again, and then Gerethwy was hustling Straessa towards the curving hull of the self-same Windlass that she had arrived on – apparently someone had decided its hold would make a good infirmary.

  She refused to end up in the hoist they had rigged up, instead climbing with fierce determination up the rope ladder, which made her head swim. Never stand near explosives again. Good rule to live by.

  ‘Is this all of you?’ Jons Allanbridge demanded, and she caught a brief glimpse of surprise on his solid, serious features. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  The Mantids, she realized. The Felyen, they’re not coming back. They never were. A brief image, from the muster, of all those lean, grim men and women – the old, the young, children and babes in arms, all of them. All of them. The Felyal ends here. What have we done?

  She staggered over to the rail, where one of Allanbridge’s people was hastily reloading the breach of his smallshotter. There were still a few trying to flee the camp, but she could see Wasps approaching, now, and she had the feeling that anyone who had left it this long had left it too late.

  Stormreaders streaked over the Second’s camp, lashing down trails of piercer bolts and releasing the occasional bomb

  ‘Going up!’ Allanbridge shouted.

  ‘Wait!’ Three running figures below were just closing with the rope ladder.

  The airship began to rise, but Gerethwy kept paying out the ladder to keep it within reach of them until all three had hold of it and were climbing.

  She stretched out a hand and hauled up the first to reach the rail. Smoke-blackened beneath the ruined visor of a battered helm, it took her a moment to recognize Kymene. The two behind her were a pair of her Mynan saboteurs.

  The two women just stared at one another, then the Mynan leader clasped Straessa’s shoulder in wordless solidarity.

  ‘The sky!’ someone was shouting. ‘The sky!’

  The Antspider looked up, but saw nothing but the underside of the Windlass’s balloon. Then understanding came to her: the Sky.

 
The Sky Without was too late in departing, or perhaps it was just such a grand target that the Wasps had sought it out first. The immense airship still hung low to the ground, and Straessa could see Wasp airborne swarming over it, fighting on its decks, mad for revenge.

  ‘Hammer and tongs,’ whispered Allanbridge, next to her.

  A moment later they saw a flash, something exploding below decks, towards the stern. Abruptly there was smoke pouring from the Sky’s hatches, and then Straessa could see fire glaring from the rearmost windows, working its way forward a cabin at a time. Soon there would be cinders alighting on the envelope, shrivelling the silk.

  She sagged to the deck. Let it all be worth it. What are we, if none of this was worth it?

  ‘How bad?’ Tynan asked.

  Mycella’s face remained calm, even as one of her healers attended to the arrow in her shoulder. They both knew that the wound was not what the general was referring to.

  ‘Almost half of my people, mercenaries and my own troops equally,’ she said softly. Tynan had heard how the fight had gone – how the Spider-kinden had simply not stopped throwing themselves into the fray, into that whirl of blades that the Mantis-kinden had put up – and how the Mantids had been happy to welcome them, given an opportunity to spill the blood of their oldest enemy. That sacrifice had saved countless Wasp lives and perhaps held the whole camp together.

  ‘The Empire will remember,’ he assured her.

  ‘Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,’ she replied wryly. ‘It’s enough that you yourself remember.’

  Tynan turned to the Fly engineer. ‘Major Oski.’ All around them he could hear the sound of the Second Army counting over the cost, removing bodies and tending wounds, putting out fires. This was the crucial report, though.

  Oski would not meet his gaze, which was a bad sign right now. ‘General, supplies are mostly intact. Splitting them up as much as possible, well, there was nothing there that made a decent target for them. Artillery . . . sir, they took out most of our larger engines, and blew a couple of the firepowder stores, too. We have two greatshotters still in working order, one other that could be repaired if I’ve got two days. Of the rest, we lost seventeen of the ballistae we’ve been using against the enemy fliers, and Captain Bergild reports two Farsphex down as well.’

  ‘In summary?’ Tynan kept his voice level.

  ‘We’re going to take far more of a pounding from their air – our ability to keep them at bay has taken a serious beating. And, General – when we get there, we don’t have the engines to take down their walls. We’d have to assault with just the Light Airborne, and they’d have their orthopters harrying us all the time . . . Sir, when you pulled back from Collegium the last time, well . . . it’s not much different to that. I don’t see how we can take the city.’

  Tynan felt a sick clenching within him. Not again! But they had been marching towards this moment ever since the order came. Where is that air support I was promised? His eyes met Mycella’s, and he saw her reading these conclusions from his face. She might not know the artifice involved, but she knew him.

  ‘The attack will proceed.’

  Tynan started, suddenly aware of Vrakir standing beside him. There was a strange look to the Red Watch officer, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

  ‘Captain Vrakir . . .’ Tynan started, but the man looked at him with such an expression that the general found himself unexpectedly silenced.

  ‘I speak with the Empress’s voice,’ Vrakir declared. ‘New weapons, new troops are coming. You will continue the march. Collegium will fall.’

  In the resulting silence, Tynan merely stared at the man. It was as though a flash-fever had descended on Vrakir; as though . . .

  As though someone was speaking through him, something long-hidden rising to the surface at this time of need. He had the inexplicable feeling that, had he only asked an hour before, Vrakir would have known nothing about these new orders.

  ‘Sir.’ Colonel Cherten was now at his other side, one arm in a sling still spotted with blood. ‘You saw his papers. He carries the Empress’s authority.’

  ‘I will not waste the lives of my soldiers,’ Tynan said quietly.

  Vrakir’s stare seemed to be fixed on something beyond him. ‘General, the Empress has full confidence in your loyalty and obedience.’

  Something cold traced its way down Tynan’s spine – caused by the words and the weirdly distant voice combined. He was suddenly aware of Cherten being a Rekef man, almost certainly . . . and how many others here? Who amongst his officers would oppose him, if he tried to steer them against this supposed word of the Empress.

  And worse, he did believe it was the word of the Empress. He found within himself no doubt at all, and that scared him more than anything else.

  ‘Do not fear, General. You shall have your victory,’ Vrakir insisted. ‘Collegium shall fall to you.’

  There were a lot of unhappy looks around then – not least Major Oski and Mycella herself – but Tynan had built himself a career based on loyalty first and foremost.

  ‘We march on,’ he confirmed. ‘Do what you can for the wounded, and get the army ready to move.’

  Twenty

  It had taken Che a day to exhaust the patience of the Sarnesh. While she had been heading forwards, they had been happy to follow her. When she had led them to the Empress herself they had been exultant. It had not mattered that Seda had then vanished into the forest, that the woman and her fellows had somehow left no tracks, or that the Nethyen might happen on them at any time. Che had led them so far, and Che would lead them to the Empress again. A decisive victory for Sarn was imminent, and that was all that mattered.

  A full day later, however, and it had become clear to them that Che was leading them nowhere. Not that they stayed still, but the Beetle girl’s path wound round and circled, doubling back and trailing off, so that by evening it was apparent that they had crossed and recrossed only a small patch of forest, and ended up where they had started.

  They were going to report back, they explained the next morning, but it was obvious that their confidence in her had evaporated. For a moment the old Inapt mysteries had carried them along, but no further. They were rationalists and it was plain that Che was mad.

  The others, Che’s own retinue, had stayed with her, but she could feel that their confidence was slipping, too, watching her through the hours of morning and then on past noon, and the day creeping away – and still no progress and no explanation.

  Tynisa particularly . . . Che was worried about Tynisa. ‘That was my father,’ she had said, and Che had stared at her and tried to convince her that she was wrong, but the girl had become more and more insistent. Her father had been there with the Empress, guarding her. How can that be, Che? And Che’s denials had fallen on deaf ears.

  Then Maure herself had come and stepped between them and said, Che, she’s right. Simple words, but Che already knew inside that they were true. For, of course, the Empress had been present there when Tisamon died. Of course the Empress could call up Tisamon’s shade, especially since Tynisa had rejected it and cast it out.

  One more thing to put right when we find Seda, Che had vowed. But they could not find Seda. The Empress had taken a path that they could not follow.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Che confided to Maure. ‘I can feel her still. She’s there. She’s not even far away. It’s just . . . every direction I choose takes me further away from her.’

  ‘She has gone inwards,’ Maure confirmed. ‘I think . . . she has paid some price or enacted some ritual that has let her through. I can feel the ghosts of this place all around, angry and confused. If we had come here alone, then we might have just walked in – assuming the Mantids didn’t kill us. Now, though, the division of the locals has tangled the way. The Empress has been able to buy or force her way through, but we cannot follow.’

  ‘Why not?’ Che demanded. ‘Doesn’t this place . . .’ know who I am? But that would be a foolish line t
o take. ‘Then find me the price, and it will be paid.’

  Maure just stared at her, and after a moment Che reconsidered what she had said, and sighed. ‘I mean, we will have to find a way in. We have to stop her, Maure. Last night I dreamt that . . . this Argastos was calling to me. I could sense that Seda was nearing him.’

  ‘Che, this is a Mantis place.’

  ‘I know that, and I . . . you mean the price?’

  Maure nodded.

  ‘But blood? Hasn’t there been enough?’

  ‘Blood to the Mantis-kinden is like machines to the Apt,’ the halfbreed observed philosophically. ‘They see so many distinctions and divisions, where to us it is all just . . .’

  ‘But I thought blood rituals were . . . for the Mosquito-kinden?’

  Maure closed her eyes for a moment, as though pained. ‘Blood is a symbol, Che – a symbol of power, violence, identity. Mosquito-kinden might have made it an art form, but blood was always the Mantis way. Be thankful it was the Moths that got to them first.’

  Che blinked. ‘You’re talking about a sacrifice. I don’t think I can do that.’

  Maure just shrugged. ‘It’s no magic that I was ever tutored in. It’s not the Woodlouse way, nor that of the Moths, for they have other ways of exerting power. But I have been trying to find the path in, and it is as barred to me as it is to you. If Terastos was a greater magician, perhaps he would have some way of circumventing it, but he admits that he’s out of his depth.’

  ‘There must be some other way.’

  The necromancer shrugged again.

  ‘Che,’ came Tynisa’s soft call. ‘We’re not alone.’

  The Beetle girl’s eyes opened wide, and she reached out, seeking . . .

  Fool, to become too focused on this. ‘Nethyen,’ she managed to warn them. ‘Everyone, ready to move.’

  ‘Where?’ Thalric hissed.

  ‘Away.’ But he was right. Even as they were moving off, Tynisa leading the way with drawn blade, every step took them further from their destination – that destination that could only be reached by travelling in some direction off the compass, off all maps.