Dragonfly Falling (16 page)

Not
so different, after all
, she thought. She had told the truth when she
had said that the Spiderlands offered no home for her any more. She had fallen
in the dance, as her whole family had, and with nobody to help them back up.

She examined her hands
and then clenched them into fists, watching the needles of bone slide from her
knuckles. The knife was better, but Mantids were not the only kinden that the
Ancestor Art could arm.

Stenwold would die just
as easily.

She stood over him and
watched the rise and fall of his stomach, the total relaxation of expression.
It struck her that she had never seen him before without a look of vague worry.
Except last night, when he had drunk so much and she had taken her robe off her
shoulder and let it fall in careful stages to the floor.

If she had the dagger,
things might be different. With her hands, with her Art-drawn claws . . . She
felt abruptly crippled by something, some hindering and atavistic feeling. If
she had the dagger, or the orders, but just now she had neither.

Perhaps Thalric would
prefer him captured and talking. The rationalization – and she knew it for one
– calmed her. Thalric had a plan and she was sure this moment of reticence on
her part would make no difference, in the end.

She carefully tucked
herself under the sheet again, her back to him, feeling him shift slightly.
After the cool of the air she let her back and feet rest against him, stealing
his warmth. When he moved again she turned automatically, her hand moving
across his chest. There were scars there. She had seen them. It was a strange
life, that had made this man scholar and warrior both.

When he put his arm
around her she felt, for one instant, trapped, and in the next, safe, before
she recalled herself to her role. Whether it was her role or herself that
reached out for him she could not have said.

General Alder woke as
soon as the tent-flap was pushed aside. By long practice his one hand found the
hilt of his sword.

‘General,’ came the
hushed voice of one of his junior officers. ‘General?’

It was ridiculous.
‘Either you want me awake, soldier, in which case speak louder, or you don’t,
in which case what in the Emperor’s name are you
doing
here?’

‘I’m sorry, General,
it’s the Colonel-Auxillian.’

Drephos
.
There was only one Colonel-Auxillian in the army. ‘What does that motherless
bastard want?’ Alder growled. It was pitch-dark within the tent, too dark for
him to even see the man a few paces away. ‘What’s the hour?’

‘Two hours before
midnight, General.’

‘And he wants to speak
to me
now?
Can’t he sleep?’

‘I don’t know, General—’

‘Get out!’ Alder told
the man. He sat up on his bed, a folding, metal-sprung thing they had made
especially for him in the foundries of Corta. Drephos was a menace, he decided.
The twisted little monster was taking his privileges too far.

Still, the man had a
reputation, and it was a reputation for being right. Alder spat, and then
dragged a tunic one-handed over his head and slung a cloak over his shoulders.
Barefoot, he stepped out of his tent.

The camp had enough
lights for him to see the cowled and robed form of Drephos standing some yards
away. The agonized junior officer was hesitating nearby and, when Alder raised
a hand to dismiss the man, Drephos’s voice floated towards him.

‘Don’t send him away
just yet, General. I think you will have orders to issue before long.’

Alder stalked over to
him. ‘What is it now?’ he demanded. ‘Your precious plan failed a day and a
night ago.’

‘Did I admit its
failure?’ Drephos enquired.

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘I did not, General, nor
do I. Have your men gather for an attack. The moment is at hand.’

Alder stared at him, at
the featureless shadow within the cowl. ‘Then—’

‘Tark’s walls are
thicker to be sure, and of a stronger construction than I had thought, but the
reagent has permeated the stone.’

‘And you know this?’

‘By the simplest
expedient, General. I went and looked.’

Alder shook his head. ‘I
don’t believe it.’

‘Darkness is a cloak to
me, General, but a blindfold to my enemies. I simply walked up to the enemy’s
walls and knew what I was looking for. In three hours, perhaps less, you will
have your breach. I would therefore have your response standing by.’

‘A night assault?’ Which
would be messy, Alder thought.

‘They’re bound to notice
their walls coming down, General. Wait till morning and they’ll have barricades
up. We must force the issue now. And while they’re busy fighting it out over
the breach, in the darkness which will whittle away at their crossbows’
effectiveness, we can try to put a few more holes in them. I’ve not been idle
these last few days, and one of the leadshotters is now converted into a ram.’

‘Major Grigan mentioned
as much. He was not pleased.’

A derisive noise emerged
from within the cowl. ‘Major Grigan, of your precious engineers, is a
dull-minded fool.’

‘Major Grigan is an
imperial officer—’ Alder felt his temper rise.

‘He is a
fool
,’ Drephos repeated. ‘He should be over on their side
of the walls, hampering them. I am ten times the artificer he would ever be
even if he opened his eyes to the world mechanical. A fool, General, and you
would best give me what I ask for if you wish this war won.’

At this late hour it was
too much. Alder’s one hand clutched Drephos by the collar again, drawing the
man up onto his toes. ‘You forget your place, Auxillian.’

The general felt
Drephos’s left hand, gauntleted in steel, take his wrist and, with an appalling
strength, remove it from its owner’s person. Still maintaining that grip, which
was gentleness backed with the threat of crushing force, Drephos’s unseen face
looked straight into his.

‘Judge me on this,
General,’ he said. ‘Prepare for your assault. If the walls still stand, then do
what you wish.’

Not half an hour had
passed before Alder had his command staff woken and rushed to his tent: Colonel
Carvoc for the camp; Colonel Edric for the assault; the majors, including the
sullen Grigan; the Auxillian chiefs and other unit leaders.

‘We are going to
attack,’ he informed them, seeing blank incomprehension on all sides. ‘Drephos
assures me that the wall will be down shortly and I want to be ready for it.’

He saw Grigan’s lip curl
at the name, but when he fixed the man with his gaze, the major dropped his
eyes.

‘Colonel Edric.’

‘Yes, General.’

‘Get me all of your
Hornets that are still able to fly. Back them with two wings of the light
airborne and a wing of the Medium Elites. Go and organize them now.’

Edric saluted and ran
from the tent.

‘Carvoc.’

‘Yes, General?’

‘I want three wings each
of Lancers and Heavy Shield-men, and our Sentinels. Go now.’

When Carvoc had gone, a
worried frown already appearing on his face, Alder turned to the Auxillian
officers. Discounting the maverick Drephos there were two of any worthwhile
rank. Anadus of Maynes was a ruddy-skinned Ant who was either the army’s
swiftest dresser or slept in most of his armour: a solid, bitter man who
detested the Empire and all it stood for. Alder knew all that, just as he knew
that so long as the man’s city-state of Maynes, his family, his people, were
all held hostage to his behaviour, that hatred would be turned on the Ants of
Tark. Besides, Ants fought Ants. All the subject races had flaws, and that
feuding was theirs.

Beside him was Czerig, a
grey-haired Bee-kinden artificer from Szar. There was never any trouble from
that direction, fortunately. The Bee-kinden were loyal to their own royal house
and, since the Emperor had taken their queen from them and made her his
concubine, they had served the Empire as patiently as if they were its born
slaves.

‘Captain-Auxillian
Anadus,’ Alder said, enjoying the dislike evident in the man’s eyes, ‘assuming
Drephos is correct, your brigade gets to take the breach.’

Anadus’s eyes remained
bleak. The worst danger, the greatest glory, a chance to kill Ants of a city
not his own? Alder could only guess at the thoughts going on behind them. ‘Go
and prepare your men, Captain. If there’s a breach I want it packed end to end
with your Maynesh shields before the Tarkesh can fill it.’

‘It shall be so,
General,’ said Anadus, his tone suggesting that he considered death in this
other man’s war the only way out with honour for him and his men.

Which
concept I have no concern with.

‘Captain-Auxillian
Czerig.’

The old man looked up
tiredly. Like all his kinden he was short, strong-shouldered, dark of skin.

‘Get the new ram Drephos
has tinkered with ready for the gates. You know the one?’

Czerig nodded. He said
nothing that was unnecessary, and when he spoke it was mostly about his trade.

‘Good. And I also want
the Moles.’

Czerig pursed his lips.

‘What is it, Captain?’

‘They . . . are not
happy.’ Czerig twisted, clearly less than delighted himself. ‘They say . . .
they are not warriors, General.’

‘So what makes a
warrior?’ Alder enquired. ‘If they have the ill luck not to be born
Wasp-kinden, then they have this: they have armour, they have weapons and they
are going to war. Tell them they’re all the warrior they need to be. I want
them against some patch of the walls within a hundred yards of the breach – if
it ever happens. So I can support the main assault. Is that clear?’

Czerig nodded glumly and
saluted.

Awake. Totho’s eyes were
abruptly wide in the darkness. It was not the sound, although there were
sounds, but a shudder that had awakened him. He clung to his pallet because the
floor was shaking.

People were running
about in the hall outside. He was in Tark – that was it. Not in Collegium. Not
Myna, which for some reason had come to him as a second guess. The Ants of
Tark. The siege . . .

He stumbled up from the
floor, feeling it twang again like a rope pulled taut. Part of him was
desperate to believe he was still dreaming. He tripped over his discarded
clothes on his way to the door and pulled it open. There were lamps outside,
and he stared at them blearily: simple globes over gaslight, but one of the covers
had fallen and smashed, leaving the naked flame guttering.

A squad of soldiers
charged past him, heading for the outside. They were armed and armoured, but
there was an uncharacteristically slipshod look to them: warriors who had
harnessed in haste. He called after them, but not one of them looked back.

‘Totho, lad.’ The small
figure of Nero almost tripped down the stairs, his wings flaring as he caught
himself. He was wearing only a nightshirt. ‘What’s happening?’

Totho could only shake
his head, and a moment later Nero was displaced by Parops, his chainmail
hauberk hanging open at the back. Totho expected him to say this was no place
for civilians, that they should go back to bed and let the army deal with it.
Instead Parops hissed, ‘You’ve arms and armour? Put them on!’

‘Parops, what in blazes
is going on?’ Nero demanded.

The Ant commander’s face
was haunted. ‘The wall’s down.’

‘The
what?
’

‘The wall’s down,’ and
the floor shook as he repeated himself. ‘It’s coming down right now, and the
Wasps aren’t far behind.’

And then Parops was
charging back upstairs, his loose armour flapping. Even as Totho watched, Salma
bolted from his room, heading for the outside, his sword in his hand.

Nero shook his head. ‘I
have a bow upstairs in my room,’ he remarked philosophically. ‘I think I shall
go and string it.’ He left Totho gaping.

But gaping would solve
nothing. Totho stumbled back into his room and wrestled on his leather
work-coat: that would serve as armour better than his bare skin would. He had
the repeating crossbow that Scuto had given him and he slung on his
sword-baldric that had a bag of quarrel magazines hanging from it.

I am
no soldier
, he inwardly protested. But the Wasps would not care.

Totho blundered out into
the hall again.

‘Hey, Beetle-boy? You
fighting now?’

It was Skrill. She wore
her metal scale vest and her bow and, to his surprise, she looked more
frightened than he felt.

‘I suppose,’ he said
uncertainly.

She clapped him on the
shoulder. ‘I’ll stick right with you then, Beetle-Boy. Whole world’s coming
apart at the seams.’

And it was. Another
shudder racked Parops’s tower, and Totho pushed his way to the door and flung
it open.

Behind him, Skrill
uttered something, some awed exclamation, but his ears were so crammed with the
sound from outside that he heard not one word.

The wall was down. The
wall beside the tower had fallen and was still falling. Totho saw the stones of
the lower reaches bulge and stretch like soft cheese, shrugging off the
colossal weight of their higher-up brethren, so that to the left and right of
the breach whole stretches of wall were bulging inwards or outwards as though
pressed either way by a giant’s hand.

There were Ant soldiers
running for the gaping breach, each man and woman falling into formation even
as they ran, shields before them, locked rim over rim. The stones fell on them
as they massed forwards.

There were other
soldiers charging the breach from the outside. For a moment Totho could not
work it out at all. The shields of the defenders were meeting the same locked
rectangles of the attackers, and in the poor light of the moon he could see no
difference between them. Ant against Ant, shortswords stabbing over
shield-tops, second-rank crossbows shooting, almost close enough to touch, into
the faces of the enemy, and all happening in silence: metal noises aplenty but
not a cry, not an order yelled on either side. The battle line twisted and
swayed over the breach, which widened and widened, dropping further stones that
slammed gaps into the ranks of both sides.