Siege of Rage and Ruin

by Django Wexler

  There’s a little cheering when I emerge, but most of them just stare. I don’t blame them. In a little bit I’ll give them something to really stare at.

  Tori is already there, talking with Jakibsa and Giniva. Zarun and Jack are waiting for me. Zarun is in his usual loose shirt and trousers, while Jack has found a cape somewhere and is delightedly spinning in place to make it twirl behind her.

  “It adds dash,” she says, before I can ask. “And verve. And other things.”

  “Okay.”

  “Jack always felt she had need of a cape to complete her ensemble.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look at the way it—”

  “We get it,” Zarun says. “You like the cape.”

  Jack subsides, still muttering. Zarun turns to me and lowers his voice.

  “You think this lot is going to stand up?” He jerks his head at the Red Sashes in the square.

  “They’re going to have to.” I look past them, at the huge shape looming behind the extinguished bonfires. “Besides, if this goes how we want it to, they won’t have to do much more than run across the ward.”

  “That’s a big if.”

  “That’s what we’re there for, isn’t it?”

  “Right.” He gives me a smile, but I can tell his heart isn’t in the banter, any more than Meroe’s was.

  My friends, my lover. Here not because they believe in a cause, or have a stake, but just for me. That I didn’t ask them to come doesn’t lessen the weight of responsibility. If one of them gets hurt …

  I put it out of my mind. Not today.

  “We should move,” I tell Tori. “We don’t want to wait too long with the walls stripped bare.”

  She says a few more quiet words. Jakibsa makes a sour face, but nods and heads back inside, and Giniva follows. Tori looks back to me.

  “I’m ready.”

  “You could stay behind, you know.”

  “I can help.” Tori taps the side of her head. “You’ll see.”

  “Keep well back, then.”

  “Of course.” She gives a shaky laugh.

  All right. I step forward and raise my voice, speaking to the assembled rebels.

  “If you don’t know me, I’m Gelmei Isoka, Tori’s older sister. I’m not going to try for any fancy speeches here. We’re taking back the Fourth Ward and the grain storehouse. If we win, it means full bellies for weeks. Everyone got that?”

  A hesitant cheer answers.

  “We’ll have … a little help.” I gesture past the dead bonfires. “It’s on our side, but stay out of its way. I don’t want anyone getting stepped on. Apart from Imperials, that is.”

  There’s a wave of nervous laughter. I close my eyes, and reach out with Eddica.

  The double-humped angel in its rope-and-crab-shell harness is still there, dormant, spirit energy roiling gently inside it. When it feels my attention, its blue crystal eye flares with light, and its limbs shiver into readiness. I bring it forward, getting used to its weird multi-legged gait, passing between the lines of wide-eyed Red Sashes until its stands directly in front of us. Returning my attention to my physical body, I take hold of the harness and climb up, sitting between the humps. Jack swarms up after me, mounting the angel’s highest point with her cape streaming, while Zarun take his place somewhat more reluctantly.

  “You want a ride?” I say to Tori.

  “I suppose you gallop around on these things all the time on Soliton,” she says, looking up at me dubiously.

  “This is my first time, actually.” I think of riding the dog-angel Hagan possessed back at the Harbor. “Well, my first time with the reins, at least.”

  She purses her lips, but ultimately grabs hold of the ropes and makes her way up, waving to acknowledge shouts and cheers from the soldiers. Once she’s settled opposite me, I close my eyes again.

  “It takes all my concentration to run this thing,” I tell her, “so please don’t distract me.”

  The angel barely fits down the street leading west from the square, and I have to stay on the main roads lest we smash through a building. The Red Sashes follow, squad by squad, keeping a respectful distance behind the lumbering construct. When we reach the military highway, we head south, the angel’s rolling gait taking the slope effortlessly in stride. At the junction, we turn west again, moving toward the city’s main western gate at the very north tip of the Fourth Ward.

  The plan, in essence, is simple. Use the angel to burst through whatever defenders are watching the gate, get atop the outer wall, then sweep south through the district, pushing the Imperials in front of us. With any luck, we’ll catch them off balance, and have the Fourth back in our control before Naga can send reinforcements.

  At the edge of rebel territory, the Blues are waiting for us, a group of fifty or more Tori has gathered from across the city. Beyond them is the gate into the Fourth Ward, still in our hands. Past that is the thin strip of no-man’s-land, and then the Imperial defenses.

  The angel, I estimate, should just fit through the gate. I open my eyes and let it come to a halt.

  “Everybody off,” I tell the others.

  “Dauntless Jack will ride into battle atop this mighty steed!” Jack protests, whipping her cloak boldly back and forth.

  “Brainless Jack is asking for an arrow to the face,” Zarun growls. “Come on, get down here.”

  She grumbles, but complies. I glance at Tori.

  “Stay close,” I tell her. “And keep an eye out for Imperials trying to get behind us.”

  Tori nods. She’s wearing her usual laborer’s clothes, with a long knife thrust through her belt, and for a weird moment I feel like this can’t be my sister. It has to be someone else, this calm, competent creature, at home amid the blood and death of a battlefield, just like—

  Well. Just like me.

  But then she looks back, and her face is so familiar my heart wants to break. The Blues will protect her, I know, and every soldier of the Red Sashes. But that didn’t stop Naga from grabbing her once already, and I send up a silent prayer to the Blessed One. Not that I suppose I have much credit in Heaven.

  The gates swing open. The highway leads out straight and clear, through a broad stretch of grass in front of the wall. Beyond that, the buildings of the Fourth District cluster close, and the road is blocked with wooden spikes. I can see the caps of militia soldiers crouched behind a barricade, and I can only imagine their confusion at the sight of the angel in the gateway.

  I pull my armor up, and devote my attention to getting the angel moving. I can see through its crystal eye, though it turns the world black-and-white and queerly flat, like a moving pencil sketch. As the construct shuffles forward, a wave of consternation runs through the conscripts blocking the way. The angel clears the gateway and gathers speed, and they open fire. Crossbow bolts rise with a hiss and descend all around me. Mostly they miss, sticking in the road. Some manage to hit the angel, and glance away as though they’d struck a stone wall, with as little effect. One, by pure chance, catches my arm, drawing a brief flare from my armor.

  The angel keeps moving, faster and faster, it’s off-kilter gait rocking back and forth. I hear sergeants screaming at their troops to reload, but the construct is moving faster than a charging horse. They realize they’re not going to have the time for another shot before I reach them, and they run.

  I can’t blame them. It’s the only sensible thing to do—the angel is a ton of moving stone, like a runaway cart full of rocks, and as little inclined to show mercy to anything that gets in its way. The soldiers abandon their barricades and sprint down the street, ducking into alleys wherever they can find them. The angel hits their fortifications and crushes them like so many toothpicks, sending heavy pieces hurtling merrily through the air. More crossbow bolts rain down on me, and I can’t help laughing out loud.

  Eventually, no doubt, they’d figure out some way to get me off my unstoppable mount. It doesn’t turn very well at top speed, so they might be able to circle
in behind it and get a handhold on the harness. The plan, however, is not to give them any time for that, and in my wake the Red Sashes come boiling out of the gate, shouting for all they’re worth. When men have started to run, their instinct is to keep running, and the militia who had manned the barricades need little more encouragement.

  In less than a minute, we’ve reached the first major intersection, where the military highway meets the Fourth Ward’s major north–south artery. A force of Red Sashes rushes to guard us from the south, and I keep the angel moving west, toward the outer wall. The district narrows to a point at the north end, and we’re not far from there, so there’s only a few blocks to cover.

  As expected, the Imperials try to make another stand. There’s a square in front of the outer wall gate, normally a market, now fortified with more barricades. Another volley of crossbow bolts greets me, and again one bounces off my armor, but the angel’s charge scatters these soldiers as effectively as the first group. Unfortunately, here crossbow fire continues from the wall itself—the gatehouse and the wall-walk have a good view of the square, and the troops up there are safe from the angel.

  It could probably take the wall down, if I went straight at it. The rogue angels we call dredwurms can rip right through Soliton’s metal decks. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near such a collision, though, and in any case we need the wall intact. I push instructions at the angel through Eddica, making it slew around ninety degrees in a spray of dirt, then settle down on its haunches. It makes a solid barrier across the square, only a few yards from the walls, and the Red Sashes coming after me sprint for it. Crossbow bolts fall among them, some finding their mark, but dozens of soldiers reach the shelter of the angel’s bulk.

  Zarun and Jack are among the leaders, and I slide off the angel’s back to meet them. Red Sashes with bows are firing back, but the troops on the wall have the advantage of height. We need to push them off, and quickly. Fortunately, the outer wall isn’t designed to be defended from an attack coming from inside the city—there are two wide staircases leading to the top of the gatehouse, the better for Ward Guard to man their posts quickly in an emergency.

  “I’ll take left, you take right,” I tell Zarun. “Jack, get up there and stop those crossbows.”

  “Aye-aye!” Jack says, twirling her spear. She folds shadows around herself with a flourish of her new cape and vanishes. Zarun gives me a grunt and a nod, and we run in opposite directions, circling around the ends of the angel.

  Militia soldiers are waiting for me on the staircase, trying to present a wall of spearpoints. I’m not close enough to see their faces, but I’m sure they’re terrified. Poor bloody rotscum. I can end their stories now, like the red-haired girl, and for what? But what else am I supposed to do?

  Crossbow bolts land all around me. One glances away from my armor just shy of my forehead, heat wrapping around my skull like a blast from an open oven. I snarl, and ignite my blades, green energy crackling and popping around me.

  “Run,” I shout at the top of my lungs. “Or die!”

  It’s all I can think of, my concession to the fact that these boys and girls don’t want to be here any more than I do, don’t want to die for the sake of Naga’s ambition. Somewhat to my surprise, most of them do run, throwing down their spears, bowling over the furious Ward Guard officers who try to shout them back into line. Only a couple are still on the stairs by the time I get there, an older man and woman standing side by side.

  I don’t know if they’re husband and wife, brother and sister, or just drinking buddies, but they’ve worked together before—the man thrusts his spear at me, and when I dodge the woman sweeps her blade across my legs. The tip slides across my armor with a scraped-glass screech, but it’s enough to make me stumble, going to one knee on the stairs. She reverses her swing, but this time I see it coming and duck, ignoring the man’s spearpoint as it goes for my ribs and slides away with a screech. I slash upward, my blade opening the woman diagonally from hip to breast, Melos power cutting through leather, skin, and bone. She falls in a welter of gore, and the man screams until I parry his wild thrust and put my other blade through his throat.

  Another story ended. I pull away, letting him topple off the stairs, and keep climbing. The Ward Guard sergeant, left behind by his men, fumbles for the sword at his belt, and I cut him down without a pause and move on. That, at least, troubles my conscience not at all.

  By the time I reach the top, it’s all but over. A half-dozen crossbowmen lie in pools of blood, cut down before they even knew they were in danger. Jack stands watch over another dozen, who wait on their knees with their hands raised. Zarun has reached the top of the wall on the other side of the gate, leaving more bodies behind him, and the rest of the soldiers there are throwing down their arms, too. A few are still running, scrambling south along the wall-walk.

  So far, so good. The Red Sashes are close behind us, swarming up the steps to take possession of the prisoners and the gatehouse. They swing the big gates closed and bar them, cutting off any troops still on the outside of the wall from coming to the assistance of those within. There are perhaps a half-dozen rebels lying in the courtyard, curled around crossbow bolts. Fewer than we expected. The Imperials had been quick to run for it.

  Tori enters the yard, amid a phalanx of Blues, and I descend to meet her.

  “Any trouble back at the intersection?” I ask one of the blank-faced women.

  “No difficulty yet,” she says, after a moment’s pause. “The Imperials seem confused.”

  “It won’t last.” I look at Tori. “I’m going to take the angel and lead the drive south. The next place they’ll probably try to seriously stop us is the Onion Market. Do you want to follow, or push along the wall?” Or stay behind. I don’t doubt Tori’s Kindre powers have their uses, but they won’t stand up to a crossbow bolt.

  “I’ll stay with you.” Tori seems a little winded, but looks determined.

  “Then let’s go.” I raise my voice. “Jack! You take the drive along the wall! Keep them moving!”

  “As you say, bold leader!” Jack raises her spear, cape whipping in the wind, and I have to admit she cuts a dashing figure. “Fearless rebels, with me! To death and glory!”

  “It’s supposed to be ‘death or glory,’” Tori murmurs, under the resulting cheer.

  I give a little shrug. You try to explain Jack.

  Zarun returns, spattered with blood but otherwise unharmed, and I get back up to my place aboard the angel. Its crystal eye flashes blue and it lumbers to its feet, shedding a few crossbow bolts lodged in the harness. Carefully, I turn the thing around, heading back to the intersection. The respectful rebels clear a wide path.

  The Onion Market is roughly in the center of the Fourth Ward, close to the grain storehouse and somewhat to the north of the Grayrock. The main road, sometimes called the Onion Way, runs into it from the north and south. As its name suggests, in better times it’s a place for farmers in the city’s hinterland to bring their produce. The Imperial siege lines put a stop to that, so the market is just a large dirt square surrounded by warehouses. According to Giniva’s information, the Imperials use it as a mustering ground, and it’s one of the only places in the Fourth large enough to form up a significant body of soldiers. If they’re going to try to make a real stand, it has to be there.

  I keep the angel’s speed low as we move south, to let the troops on foot keep up. Zarun hangs from the harness with one hand, watching the surrounding buildings, while Tori walks at the center of her Blues. Behind them are the Red Sashes, their cheers growing quieter as we move through the ward. It feels empty, ghostly—if there are any civilians still here, they’ve hidden themselves away, and the streets are deserted.

  “The square is coming up,” Zarun says, as we round a slight curve. “And there they are.” He gives a low whistle. “That’s more than we expected.”

  I focus the angel’s vision, and suppress a moment of panic. There are indeed Imperials waiting for us, a
nd a rotting lot of them. Militia infantry are drawn up in a triple line, all across the square, spears at the ready, with a double line of crossbowmen behind them. On the wings are squadrons of Ward Guard cavalry, with real armor and sabers, waiting to swing around the ends of the undisciplined rebel mass as soon as we emerge into the open.

  This may have been a bad idea. I can drive the angel right through the spearmen, of course, but then what? I glance over my shoulder and guess we have a few hundred Red Sashes with us, against easily a thousand Imperials in the square. They’ll be slaughtered. Rot, rot, rot. I bring the angel to a halt, well back from where the road opens up into the market. Behind me, the soldiers come to a halt as well, with confused noises.

  Tori comes forward, trailing a string of Blues, as I return my attention to my own body. She climbs halfway up the harness and waves me over.

  “What’s going on?”

  I gesture at the Imperials waiting for us. “There’s too many. We have to pull back.”

  She shakes her head. “You said yourself that if we give them a chance to get organized, they’ll cut us to pieces.”

  “If they have this many soldiers here, there can’t be many left at the wall.” My mind is racing. “If we cut them off from supplies—”

  “We can’t hold the wall from the inside,” Tori says. “We have to break them now.”

  “If we go in there, they’ll slaughter us, even with the angel leading the charge. See the cavalry?” I’ve never fought men on horseback, but I can easily imagine the impact they would have at a gallop.

  “I’ll handle it,” Tori says. “Just go straight down the middle.”

  “Tori—”

  She gives me a look.

  Trust her, Meroe said. Is this what that means? Letting her lead a charge to certain death?

  But what other options have I got, right now?