Foul Tide's Turning (57 page)
I don’t want that
. But she had it. She had opened the door to the cage. Willow bent down and helped Paetro sit up, picking up his clothes piled on the floor and passing them to the Vandian. ‘If you care anything for Duncan, tell him not to follow me. Give that message to my father, too.’
‘You’re a fool if you go with the priest, lass,’ moaned Paetro, glaring in revulsion at the pastor. ‘Death follows him like a shadow.’
‘I know.’
My shadow too, now
. Stretching long across all of Weyland.
There was a rattle from the roof above, shaking from a nearby explosion. ‘That was one of ours,’ said Paetro, glaring at the pastor. ‘We’re going to win here, Weylander.’
‘Break the city, crush parliament’s army, smash the rebellion,’ said Jacob. ‘Yes, that was inevitable. Even without the Imperium’s might, Bad Marcus would have starved and shelled Midsburg into submission within a few months.’
‘We’ve won,’ snarled Paetro.
‘No,’ said Jacob. ‘Because this city’s fall isn’t just Vandia’s blood price. It’s mine, too.’
What does he mean?
‘I don’t understand?’ said Willow.
‘All we need to do to win here is survive,’ said Jacob, prodding the traitor’s corpse with his boot. ‘And we have.’
‘I’ll chase you to the ends of the world,’ snarled Paetro.
‘With your empire’s might, you probably could, if you set your mind to it,’ smiled Jacob. ‘But you won’t have to. This is my war now. You’re not facing Prince Owen and his po-faced general staff’s noblemen anymore. This defeat will end their control over the army. Don’t you see? I couldn’t seize command of the northern army in a coup. How could I do that? Who in our undefeated army would ever follow a bandit chieftain and murderer? But if I find the army lying beaten, lost in the gutter like a dropped dagger and bend down to pick it up …? The fall of Midsburg isn’t
your
victory. It’s mine. I should thank you, Vandian. I should kiss your emperor’s arse, because you’ve done everything I needed you to.’
Paetro groaned in pain.
‘And you’ll never have to look far for me, Vandian. I’ll be your shadow. I’ll be your night and your day. And if you ever get lost, just follow the sound of the screaming. That’s where I’ll be.’
THE FALL OF MIDSBURG
Duncan surveyed the landscape from one of the Vandian tanks, standing on the relative safety of its iron ramparts, fifteen feet above the ground. This particular machine of war was named
The Wolf of Soarspur
by its crew, after some distant province of the imperium. It sported one large turret at the front, two smaller turrets at the rear and a series of heavy guns mounted on the ramparts that ran above its armoured skirt for the accompanying company of legionaries. These gun mounts were clearly designed to take down attacking skyguards, but with Midsburg’s air cover shattered or fled, the tank crew had to be content to pick off defenders along the curtain wall. Snarling white fangs were painted on its forward turret, grill-meshed lanterns on its flanks remade as two evil red eyes. At the very front of the vehicle a wickedly-spiked steel roller rotated between two metal arms, felling trees inside the orchards as if that was its purpose. Apple and pear trees crunched before them in splintered streams of timber, bloody red streaks twisting on the drum speaking for the few Weylanders who had survived the empire’s ‘treacle’ and been foolhardy enough to charge the
Wolf
. Barns and farm buildings exploded in clouds of brick, timber, masonry and tiles, singled out as though the tank drivers in the glacis-plate-mounted cockpit were seeking out fresh challenges for their amusement. Duncan’s unsolicited bodyguard, Nocks, leant lackadaisically on one of the mounted guns as though the farmers’ fields they tore up were his. He had made no comment beyond a little half-amused grunt when they’d crossed the smoking blackened hell where the northern cavalry charge had ended. As if to say
here’s something new and the rebels should have expected nothing less
. Duncan had smelt nothing like it before. Churning through bones, hot mud, ashes and the leftover tar of a charnel pit. A stench he’d carry to his grave. Death as a sweet, sickly aroma;
treacle indeed
.
They picked up speed. The entire Twelfth Armoured Legion driving forward like a steel javelin hurled towards the city’s eastern flank. There was little opposition worthy of the name left outside, only fountains of cold soil erupting occasionally where Midsburg’s wall-mounted cannons spoke. The
Wolf
rumbled forward with its main turret rotated towards the city. The entire tank rocked with each shell launched, a flower of flame and smoke from the big gun and then a shattering explosion and blast of masonry answering from along the curtain wall. Fire rippled the length of the armoured column, ear-splitting big guns detonating, rolling thunder as the war machines tossed their lightning towards Midsburg.
It’d be less noisy inside the tank
. Except Nocks and the legionaries seemed to think nothing of riding outside and risking a shell or a sniper’s shot from the city.
Hell if I’ll have them think me a coward
. A line of horses came galloping up alongside their tank tracks, more than fifty steeds seemingly oblivious to the line of loud rotating track-drive wheels powering the treads. These were Weylanders, blue-coated cavalrymen with a thin yellow stripe down their trousers and a long rifle tucked into each leather saddle. The officer at the front of the riders lifted up his cap as he pulled to the side, and Duncan stifled a groan as he saw it was his brother-in-law’s face.
‘Those kettles are fine for Vandian steel-backs to rattle around in,’ called up Wallingbeck, slowing and allowing his riders to pass him by. ‘But you need to be seen up high on a fine stallion for the common herd to know you’re a man of quality. These horses hail from m’own stables, corn-fed and groomed by the stable-hands at Belinus Hall.’
I’m sure the snipers up on the wall will be only too glad to see you coming
. ‘You’re riding with the Twelfth Legion all the way to the wall?’ shouted Duncan.
‘General Colbert doesn’t want all the glory of the fall of Midsburg going to the king’s allies,’ said Wallingbeck. ‘Did you see the assembly’s army ride out? Have you ever seen anything so magnificent? I won’t have it said that any Riverlarn man was less brave than the pretender’s dirty rebels.’
Magnificently stupid, perhaps
. ‘I don’t think you will hear any slights cast by the northern cavalry.’
And you had your chance to hear first-hand, as you rode over their baked bones on the way to the city
.
‘Damned fine day for riding,’ said Wallingbeck. ‘Have to give the court a good show.’ He nodded and spurred the horse on fast, re-joining the company.
Glad to see that your wife and child’s well-being inside Midsburg is still gnawing away at you
. Well, it seemed Willow had developed a knack for survival. Her marriage spoke volumes for that. It was his friend Paetro that Duncan was worried about. Things must be dire inside Midsburg for the old soldier to break off contact, failing to report in.
You survived the legions, Paetro. You survived everything that Helrena’s enemies threw at the house over the years. Surely you can survive a backwater like Weyland, too?
‘There goes a future field marshal,’ said Nocks, dryly. The scar-faced sergeant watched the viscount gallop towards the head of the column of cavalry.
Duncan turned his attention to his father’s servant. ‘Lady Landor told me that you served on the Eastern Frontier?’
‘Did she now? True enough,’ grunted the sergeant. ‘We taught all the bandits and bushwhackers out Ivah and Kish way that they’d be better off hunting for pickings on the opposite of the border, leaving the kingdom well alone.’
‘And how did you do that?’
Nock’s eyes glinted malevolently. ‘Oh, we had our little ways.’
I’m sure you did
. ‘I’m not interested in scalping rebel prisoners, Nocks. Willow may or may not have her liberty inside the city; but my sister isn’t the reason we’re heading to Midsburg. Only Princess Helrena’s daughter matters. Lady Cassandra’s our duty.’
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ said the sergeant. ‘Old Nocks knows what to do. The daughter of a princess trumps the daughter of a northcountry nobleman, even if the northern wench is willowy Willow.’
‘She’s the wife of that future field marshal, Nocks. Lady Wallingbeck. You’d do well to keep that in mind.’
‘Oh, I’m just a simple man with simple tastes,’ said the servant, the scar on his face glowing crimson as his face scrunched up in a wicked grin. ‘Yes, Nocks knows his place. Lugging a bucket around Hawkland Park in Landor livery or dressed in the royal blues of an artillery sergeant … I’m a humble soul.’
‘It may be that it’ll take hanging a few northern officers and rebel assemblymen from the lampposts to free Lady Cassandra.’
Nocks grinned even wider at that. ‘Won’t be much different from hanging farmers caught harbouring outlaws. Ain’t a lesson that ever needs repeating, in my experience.’
Duncan nodded, glad that the stout leering servant might have his uses after all.
Let Nocks do the deed, he looks like he might even enjoy it. I thought I was coming home to help temper the imperium’s vengeance. Instead, I’m crunching over the bones of Weylanders to save Cassandra. Well, the rebels’ back-stabbing stupidity sowed this harvest, now they’ll have to reap it. I did my best for my old country
. Everywhere Duncan turned he saw foolish choices. The northern prefectures and national assembly choosing to rebel against the king. His sister choosing a dolt like Viscount Wallingbeck for her husband. His father choosing a woman young enough to be his daughter as a wife and then wilfully ignoring poor Leyla to manage the house’s affairs. And now those errors were leaking into Vandia with Helrena trying to convert an untrustworthy foe like Prince Gyal into an ally through marriage.
Why does the weight of making things right always fall on my shoulders?
‘I like the way these Vandians make war, that I do,’ said Nocks. ‘Wagons like land-based ironclads to keep a man safe inside. Skyguards able to hover as still as a hawk and turn battlefields black with dragon-fire. I can see this alliance going a long way. Maybe they’ll start recruiting for legionaries inside the kingdom, too?’
‘We’ll be gone,’ said Duncan. ‘The imperium will extract their price, free Lady Cassandra, and Weyland will just be one of a thousand distant lands desperately clamouring for the empire’s bounty.’
‘You sound like one of those steel-backs, right enough, strutting through the streets and throwing your gold about,’ said Nocks. ‘Weyland’s muddled along just fine for thousands of years with only the ocean for company. I reckon King Marcus will muddle on a while longer after you’ve gone back to Vandia.’
It’ll go to hell without me … and the nation’s welcome to it. I’ll have enough on my plate trying to keep Prince Gyal from poisoning Cassandra and Helrena
.
A steel hatch opened in the rear turret closest to Duncan and he saw it was the legionary from the vehicle’s communications room: A Sig in the military jargon of the legion. ‘Any answer?’
‘No, sir,’ said the legionary. ‘The raiding force is still silent. Their only calls are from the city’s Guild of Radiomen hold, the rebels requesting help and reinforcements from other towns.’
‘Keep trying to reach Paetro,’ ordered Duncan and the hatch clanged shut.
As silent as death
.
It grew harder to see the city through rolling waves of smoke snaking out from straw-packed shot; then, as one, the column pivoted, heading directly for Midsburg’s eastern corner. They only had the trench works, embankments and traverses between them and the curtain wall, dirt-packed slopes and soil-filled bags proving as insubstantial as mist to the Twelfth Armoured. A roaring chopping noise passed overhead as a squadron of helos arrowed over the war machines, adding their weapon pods to the fusillade of artillery from the ground vehicles, rockets arcing out and disappearing into the murk as showers of stone and brick fountained out of the fog of war. A line of grey-uniformed northern soldiers emerged from of one of the trenches, rifles abandoned and hands high in the air. Nocks saw the rebels first and swivelled one of the mounted guns around, the heavy steel weapon recoiling as he fired burst after burst of shells into the line. Men crumpled like rice paper caught in a threshing machine, the remains of those that turned and ran showering into the trench they had unwisely abandoned.
‘They were surrendering!’ protested Duncan.
‘Can’t have them making trouble behind us,’ growled Nocks. ‘And we don’t have time to stop. Not if you want your imperial girl back alive.’
‘Where’s your honour?’
‘Honour? You want honour, boy, read a book to find it. Old soldiers’ tales grow as cloudy as wine over time. Out here there’s only coming back alive with the job done, or leaving your corpse in the field for crows and looters to pick over. Nocks, he’s only ever favoured the first option.’
Duncan heard a noise behind him and turned just in time to see three grey-uniformed rebels climbing up over side of the moving tank. Nocks swung the mounted gun’s muzzle down, but it couldn’t depress to a low enough angle to shoot them off and then the rebels were swarming aboard the
Wolf
. Shouts and shots sounded from the other side of the tank. They were being boarded on all sides.
The surrendering soldiers were a diversion!
Duncan fumbled for the heavy pistol in his belt, its cold steel grip slippery in his palm, raising it like dragging lead into the air. Almost instantly, Nocks was wrestling with a bayonet-tipped rifle in the hands of a giant of a rebel. One of the grey-coated rebels had his rifle off his back and fired it wildly, the bullet whining past Duncan’s cheek. There was an angry roar of electric rifles from the legionaries, the chatter of weapons fire echoing across the tank among the screams of dying men. Duncan triggered the pistol and blinked in the bright explosion of flames from its barrel vents, hardly any recoil as the rocket-propelled shell found its mark almost instantly, spinning the rifleman around so violently he collided with another rebel and they both collapsed to the steel floor behind the ramparts. Nocks twisted the contested bayonet down into the fallen soldier’s chest, leaving it impaled and the victim yelling in agony. With his rifle trapped, the big rebel stepped back and reached for his pistol holster, but Nocks was on top of him, head-butting the rebel’s face, using the second of confused pain to draw his dagger and shove it through the grey coat and into the enemy soldier’s heart.
A fourth rebel had climbed onto the war machine unseen, raising a cavalryman’s carbine up behind Nocks. Duncan yelled and brought his rocket pistol around, the artillery sergeant flinging himself down and to the side as he saw Duncan’s gun swinging towards him. The pistol roared and the rebel was punched back five feet, the part of his chest that wasn’t caved in, aflame. As suddenly as the hand-to-hand fighting had started, it was over. Only Duncan’s rapid breathing and the rattle of fire from the battlefield beyond.
Nocks picked himself up and bad-temperedly booted the dead soldier. ‘I’m obliged, boy.’
‘They didn’t have to die.’
‘Better them than me. That’s my regimental motto.’ Nocks laughed, an ugly sound, but one in keeping with this place.
Duncan hardly had time to take in the dead bodies, ignoring their accusing, wide eyes; these ones, his. Not dead from the distant artillery, the guns of the south or the Vandian war machine.
Dead by my hand
. There was a shudder as the
Wolf
crashed straight through a mound of soil, screams of crushed and buried men, and Duncan’s hand seized the turret’s hatch handle to stop from spilling over. He righted himself and peered through a firing slit in the rampart. Duncan watched royalist cavalrymen peel off beside the war machines as the column gained the piecemeal network of ditches and embrasures outside the city, more than four hundred mounted soldiers sweeping like thunder across the defensive line.
Riflemen inside the trenches appeared on fire-steps and opened up on mounts and men, a volley like splintering wood cutting down some of the lead riders, but Duncan could see that the rebels’ numbers had been depleted by the artillery bombardment, the majority withdrawn behind the relative safety of the curtain wall.
And we’re about to spoil that illusion of safety for them
. Leaping horses cleared the first ditches, sabres sweeping down as others fired into the ditches with pistols and carbines.
My brother-in-law may be a dolt, but he’s an eager one and no coward
, thought Duncan. He doubted any tales Wallingbeck carried back from this savage day would impress the nobleman’s troublesome wife, however.