GeneStorm: City in the Sky (46 page)

He was facing a mere two hundred riflemen to the west, a hundred and fifty dismounted cavalry to the south, plus another hundred and fifty mounted cavalry poised like ravening giga-moths to fall on the lines the instant his crusaders wavered. Some monks and southerners were emerging to the east – a meagre hundred men, and all armed only with muzzle loaders.

Six hundred men at best. With his troops formed into a square to protect his flanks, Kenda let his men keep up their fire. The mathematics of the situation would eventually begin to tell. There would be no glorious instant victory, but through slow attrition, he could break the backbone of the mutant alliance in a single day.

Snapper had made the same calculation. Toby ran to the right of his firing line, ducking as bullets slashed overhead. Snapper rode to meet him, and he bellowed up to her through the crash and crackle of gunfire.

“We can’t take this for long!”
He waved to the north.
“Do we signal? Do we send them in?”

“Not while they’re in close order like that! They can hold off a charge!”
The human soldiers all had excellent bayonets on their rifles. She stared at the centre of the square, where a distant figure was exhorting the human crusaders to keep their ranks.
“Kenda! He’s in charge.”

Toby spat.
“Bugger knows his business!”

Somebody else also knew their business.

Floating up at the top of the western tree line, Throckmorton had a grandstand view of the entire battle. Watching through his opera glasses, he saw the small forces of the alliance being held at bay by the human crusaders – saw the square locking tight behind steel-tipped ranks of bayonets and blasting rifle fire. He observed Snapper’s cavalry chafing for the kill; Toby’s men firing, their ammunition already running low; Mayor Beth and Samuels trying to hold the line below him. At the eastern edge of the fight, southerners and monks with muzzle loaders were bravely exchanging fire with breech loading rifles. Throckmorton knew the plan, knew what was at stake, and so he drifted back and away through the trees.

Once out of sight, he whirred away with all six wings beating, pushing himself as swiftly as he could go. Gas vented and cooled as he dropped height. The plant circled past the makeshift hospital and sailed on for a kilometre, then sank as he reached the mighty aerodyne that sat parked upon the grass.

He put on his splendid hat and flew through the rear hatch, waving the gold chip he had taken from Mistral. The hologram stewardess immediately shimmered into life.

“Mister President! How may I help you?”

Throckmorton descended to the computer equipment. A virtual keyboard shimmered into life as he approached. The plant thought for a moment, then hunted and pecked for keys with a tentacle.

“Mister President wants to make a flight please.”

“Mister President – warning. The power plant is at a critical stage of breakdown. Detonation within eight minutes or less. We cannot advise a flight at this time.”

“Okay”
Throckmorton typed.
“Turn on power plant for three minutes. Then close outer door. Fly to this location...”
Throckmorton indicated a precise point on the map with his tentacle.
“… and wait there with power plant at full power please.”

“This will violate safety protocols.”

“President will live with it.”
Throckmorton made certain that the mini bar was empty.
“Start now please!”

The hologram waved happily.
“Initiating program. Please have an enjoyable flight.”

Now clutching two miniature bottles of gin, Throckmorton high-tailed it out of the aircraft. Behind him the power plant cranked up – the machine now sounded like it was gargling flaming wildcats. The plant whirred back towards the trees, moving as fast as his gas bags allowed.

The aerodyne took off slowly, wobbling erratically as its power generators began to scream louder and louder. As Throckmorton reached the trees, the craft groaned and screeched just overhead. It headed out above the Spark Town militia, almost dropped to the ground, then struggled to maintain height and cross the few hundred metres of open ground. With a rising scream the aircraft arrived above the tight-locked square of human infantry, levelled off, then dropped the last ten metres to slam into the ground.

Kenda heard the terrifying, grinding scream of engines. He wrenched his horse aside as the aircraft slammed down in the centre of the square of troops. He stared, then screamed a warning to his men.

“Run!”
The aircraft set the grass afire all around itself.
“The north is open! Run north! Run north! Move!”

The mounted men raced to the north as all around them the square broke and men fled in their wake, sprinting fast, leaving the wounded behind.

There was no saving the south side of the square. As men fled they tried to give the aircraft a wide berth. Snapper’s cavalry raced past, crashing in amongst the trailing fugitives, slashing into them with sabres. Toby’s dismounted cavalry kept up their fire as mounts were brought racing from the rear. But the south flank of the square – two hundred and fifty humans – were still racing past the aircraft as the power plant detonated in a sudden blast of light.

One moment, the aircraft was whole: in the next instant, a white flash blasted outwards. Nearby men were incinerated, others were hurtled aside. Shattered wreckage slewed and bounced, crashing down fifty metres from the initial blast site.

The bulk of the fleeing crusaders ran three hundred metres to the north. Kenda and his scouts reined in and spread their arms, indicating a firing line facing to the south.
“Form line and open fire! Form line, open fire!”
The crusaders crammed themselves into ragged ranks. Kenda roared in approval as men blasted rifles at the rampaging Spark Town cavalry.
“Kill the mutants! Kill! Kill!”

The line formed, facing south. Ragged, panicked men saw mutant cavalry sabring bloody paths through incoming fugitives. If the line opened fire, their own men would take the bulk of the volleys. A sergeant looked to Kenda in panic.

“Sir! Our own men are in line of fire!”

“Fire!” Kenda used his horse to shove men into the ranks. “Never mind the casualties. Fire! Fire!”

The ground shook.

There was a noise – a terrifying thunder and cries on the wind. Kenda turned, sword in hand, and saw a wave of madness streaking towards his men.

Ferals.

The Striper Tribe’s finest warriors – three hundred fighters armed with bone tipped lances and huge two handed flails – came rampaging from the north, where Beau had held them chafing in reserve. Now they were unleashed. Beau rode at their head, slim sword in hand. Kitterpokkie was in the front rank, surrounded by would-be bridegrooms. The force came at a wild, frenzied gallop, thundering across the plains. A few crusaders turned and screamed in warning – several rifles fired. Kenda and his scouts spurred away to the east, and then the feral warriors slammed straight into the rear of the human battle line.

They crashed home with a monstrous noise, like a lightning bolt blasting down a wall. Crusaders were speared and clubbed – Beau rode churning through the lines, Pendleton snapping and hurtling men aside. From the other side, Snapper and her sabreurs cut into the crusader ranks. The human army vanished in the wild melee.

Snapper met with Beau, Kitterpokkie and her bridegrooms in the middle of the fight. Snapper’s friend Gunner was there beside the huge man Kitterpokkie had beaten in her fistfight. They rode down the enemy infantry and came to a halt, turning to take stock of the fight.

The human army was finished. The ferals were rampaging through them. Crusaders refused to run to the Spark Town militia and beg for safety, and so they tried to flee east, back to their tunnel. But the cavalry were amongst them, firing and lancing. Horse archers raced in groups, shooting fugitives as they ran. Snapper rose in her stirrups, clasped hands with the ferals in joy, then looked to hunt for the crusaders’ leaders. Beau, Kitterpokkie and the ferals came with her as she rode out of the melee and out into the plains.

Kenda and two horsemen were fleeing the battle, trying to escape back to their distant tunnel. Snapper saw the man and dropped her sabre, letting it hang from its wrist strap as she drew her carbine. Onan instinctively began his firing run, building slowly, moving into a straight, smooth canter. He ran with superb, flawless grace, and Snapper rose to stand in her stirrups. The feral warriors reined in with Kitt and Beau beside them. All watched as the shark made her run.

Snapper let the range close. Her body perfectly poised, she opened fire.

The first bullet cut past a horseman. The second struck the same man in the neck, hurtling him from the saddle. Kenda wrenched his mount aside, swerving as another shot hissed past. They were drawing far from the main battle. Cavalrymen, warriors and militia were ending the fight, coming to the edge of the battle and watching the duel out on the plains. Snapper closed – Onan was swifter, and by far the better mount. She fired again and again, and Kenda’s last scout reeled and fell. Snapper slung her empty carbine and once again caught up her sword.

Kenda slewed his horse around and came to a halt, facing Snapper sword in hand. Snapper slowed Onan to a canter, then a trot, finally halting two hundred metres from her man.

They watched each other across the empty ground.

Myriad troops wanted to surge forward and attack – but the huge star-painted feral beside Kitterpokkie signalled them back.

“Watch.”

Out on the plains, Snapper coldly observed her enemy. Smoke from Kenda’s shattered genocidal army blew past. The human swished his long straight blade through the air, sneering at his foe. Snapper patted Onan on the neck, and felt the leather reins creak in her grasp.

The shark rested her bloodied sword on her shoulder, fur-trimmed pelisse hanging and the horsehair streamer of her helmet crest stirring in the wind. Onan screeched defiance, then raked the grass with his claws.

The bird trotted forward, breaking into an easy, loping run.

Kenda jabbed his horse, and the beast surged forward. He trotted, slashing his sword through the air, then spurred his horse into a charge. Onan moved into the gallop, and Snapper leaned forward, perfectly poised, levelling the great curved blade before her like a lance. The two mounts streaked towards each other.

Kenda shouted, and then the two swords met with a ringing crash.

It was too fast to see. They seemed to strike and slither for an instant – sparks flashing bright – then the riders were flying past each other. Snapper’s curved blade had flicked up Kenda’s point and then ripped a wound beneath his armpit. Kenda’s sword point had struck Snapper’s helmet and skipped off, ringing like a bell. The impact made Snapper shake her head. Kenda wheeled his horse, cursing, bleeding, then he charged back towards the shark. Snapper met him again at full gallop, and the two swords collided at monstrous speed. The blades glissed and parted – one of Snapper’s cadanettes was cut free, and the edge of the shark’s blade scored a narrow razor slash across Kenda’s lower jaw.

They turned into one another, and the swords rose and fell. Snapper fought in silence. Kenda shouted with every stroke. But the shark’s curved blade was made for this – for the swirl of horseback melee. Kenda tried to hook back his arm and plunge his point home, and a great whipping cut from Snapper’s sword slashed across his chest, slicing away his shoulder belt and jacket. A savage backstroke almost took off Kenda’s head, parried at the last possible instant. The shark swirled her sword about in a fluid cut, driving Kenda back and almost hurtling him from the saddle.

The man was being beaten. But then Kenda crashed his sword guard into Onan’s head, slamming the hilt down twice onto the bird’s skull. Onan staggered and began to fall. Snapper threw herself onto Kenda and grappled him, both fighters crashing into the dirt.

Kenda whipped his sword down, hoping to slice into the shark, but she was already up and away. Pelisse swirling behind her, Snapper got to her feet, sabre held low
en guard
.

Kenda rose. This was where he excelled – duelling with swords on foot. Blood streaking unnoticed down his side, he flicked out his long straight blade and sank into the predatory crouch of a trained swordsman.

He flicked his blade and made a lightning lunge.

The straight sword was fast. Snapper parried, then parried again. She spun her sabre in a circle that should have severed Kenda’s arm at the wrist. But he had leapt back, then came straight back into the attack. He lunged twice more, parried a vicious cut, then dodged back out of range as another cut hissed a hand’s breadth from his face.

Both combatants panted, flicking sweat back from their eyes. Kenda’s long blade had scored a slicing cut across the outside of Snapper’s thigh. She ignored it, still in her battle stance. She took a high guard that Kenda had never seen before – the curved sword edge up at head height, with the wicked point aimed at his throat.

The unusual stance left Snapper’s flank wide open. With a shout of joy, the man stamped his boot, skipped sideways and launched a cut at the woman’s waist.

His cut almost killed him.