by Ari Marmell
That these were almost assuredly not the same Man-O-War troops he’d won past earlier, unless the snowdrifts had slowed the powerful armor far less than it had the Cygnarans, did little to improve the situation.
Godsdamn it, not now! Not here! I’ve got so much more ahead of me . . . I’m supposed to do so much more than this . . .
“Gentlemen.” He hoped, prayed, his voice sounded as insouciant as he intended, that the faint tremor was wholly in his mind.
“Drop the weapons, Cygnaran. Now.” The accent was thicker than the armor plating, and Atherton wasn’t even certain from which Man-O-War it had come, but he understood it all the same.
“Of course.”
Two pepperbox pistols tumbled to the snow . . .
Four pairs of eyes, hidden behind visors, flickered to follow . . .
Atherton dove into a forward roll, leaving a peculiar trench in the white slush. The Man-O-War soldiers started; all had weapons raised, yes, but all had expected him to run. That he would close some of the distance, one man against four soldiers in Man-O-War armor, was enough to stun them, however briefly.
The gunmage came up running. In his right fist he clenched the forgelock he carried at his back—a powerful weapon, yes, but not against armor like this.
The two axe-wielders raised their shields, each of which sported a miniature cannon in its center. The other two, with the chain-swords and grenade launchers, refrained from firing on him; at this range, their ordnance was all but suicidal.
Atherton passed them to one side, so that the nearest shield cannon-wielder blocked any shot the other might take. For a second, he faced not four opponents, but only one.
The forgelock fired first, if only just, but “just” was enough. Guided by an unnatural skill and even less natural sorceries, the bullet hurtled down the center of the cannon’s barrel. The shell within erupted, taking shield, cannon, and arm along with it. Blood and steam spewed, a grotesquely beautiful geyser, and the steel figure toppled.
Glaring defiantly at the other three faceless soldiers, Atherton tossed the forgelock—its own barrel mangled by the runebullet it was never designed to accommodate—aside.
Not even bothering with cannon, now, the remaining axeman advanced on him, the other two following a step behind.
“I’ll expect you to tell people all about how I did that,” the gunmage informed them. This time he knew his voice shook; he could only hope they didn’t notice. “It’s the least you can do.”
Axe-blade rose; chain-swords roared.
Atherton shut his eyes . . .
***
Winter Guard infantry lay scattered, limp and broken toys with which the gods were well and truly done playing. Gaust’s bombardment had been brutal, raining death first in the midst of the formation, then broadening to both sides, so that even those soldiers with the reflexes to dodge one incoming volley had hurled themselves into the path of the next. Half a dozen or more, dead already; most of the remainder injured, or at least dazed, hurled prone by the blasts or by their attempts to escape the blasts.
One man, older and more grizzled than the rest, rose shakily, took three stumbling steps toward Vorona, hand outstretched either to help her stand or to take possession of her satchel. Either way, the opportunity passed him by.
Not unlike a snowman un-melting, Ledeson rose from the white-carpeted earth. A shadow of a nightmare, the commando had closed undetected in the seconds following the deadly torrent. His trench knife danced across the Khadoran officer’s throat, singing a gleeful soprano as it grated on bone.
Ledeson caught the dead man’s blunderbuss and blasted another of the groggy Winter Guardsmen off his feet. Six or seven yards away, a trio of Khadorans had taken what feeble cover they could, lying prone in a shallow depression. From there, they exchanged fire with the other Cygnaran soldiers who, lacking Ledeson’s stealth, had attacked from farther back.
The Winter Guard still held the benefit of numbers, but only marginally, and the chaos and confusion of the Cygnaran strike more than countered that advantage. Bridges of bullets linked the warring sides, and two more Khadorans fell, their furs bleeding until they looked freshly hunted and skinned. Distracted, deafened by the firefight, they never noticed Ledeson moving behind them, carbine in one hand, blood-smeared blade in the other . . .
Vorona, clearly, wasn’t about to wait around to see how it all worked out, especially not with reinforcements almost in sight. She rose from her crouch, one hand steadying the satchel hanging from her shoulder . . .
“Hello again, Vorona.”
“Garland.”
Her voice remained steady as ever, but Dignity was gratified to note the faintest widening of the enemy’s eyes, the brief tic in her cheek.
“Care to drop the bag and leave?” Dignity asked, gesturing with the pistol in her right fist. “I’m willing to extend the offer. Once.”
The Khadoran laughed. “Do you think me so stupid as to still have the documents on me? Knowing that I would be your first target, were you to somehow catch up?”
Both women flinched at the ear-splitting clap of a grenade detonating somewhere uncomfortably close—the Cygnaran unit had at last located the Khadoran kommandos, and reacted accordingly—but neither took her eyes off the other.
“You wouldn’t trust anyone else, certainly no mere soldier, with the formula,” Dignity said. “And you never expected us to catch up.”
Again Dignity read her answer in Vorona’s expressions, indistinct as they might be.
“You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. Drop the bag and go.”
Vorona’s shoulders slumped. “All right. You win.” She closed her fingers around the flap of the satchel, flexed her shoulder so that the loose strap slipped down her arm . . .
And hurled it underhand, like an inverted trebuchet, at Dignity’s head.
Or rather, where Dignity’s head had been. She was ducking aside before the bag left Vorona’s grasp, anticipating just such a maneuver. Still, the hurtling lump of canvas briefly obscured her view, and by the time it cleared, Vorona, too, had her finger on the trigger of a pistol.
Each operative spun while she fired, sliding sideways, plunging into awkward crouches to clear the other’s line of fire. The two guns bellowed with a single voice, the two bullets penetrated empty air rather than flesh and blood.
What Dignity did not expect was for her opponent’s spent forgelock to come hurtling her way immediately after. She swayed aside, easily evading the clumsy missile, but by then Vorona was already on her—Gods, how did she move so fast with that leg?!—her blade flashing.
Dignity, too, became a whirlwind of thrashing limbs, parrying the knife with her own empty pistol. Here she landed a kick, there an open-hand blow, but never with any significant impact; the Khadoran simply rolled with those few strikes she couldn’t avoid.
She felt Vorona’s left hand closing on her forearm in what was surely meant to be a painful, perhaps even bone-breaking joint lock. She yanked herself desperately aside . . .
Directly into a high crescent kick.
The world spun; Dignity was certain that only the clinging snow kept her from being hurled into the overcast skies. Three separate Voronas confronted her, sliding around and overlapping, discourteously refusing to settle down.
And that, too, had been with the injured leg! She could only assume that she’d be down, possibly unconscious, had Vorona been at her peak.
Dignity rolled backward, ignoring the added vertigo as best she could, swallowing her rising gorge.
Vorona kept pace with a single stride, launching another kick meant to catch Dignity off-balance. Again she struck with her wounded leg; presumably she felt it wouldn’t support her weight if she kicked with the other.
Dignity threw out an arm to absorb the blow that might well have cracked ribs. She swore she felt the humerus flex, and her whole body tried to lock up in shock—but the bone held, and Dignity refused to freeze.
Instead she twisted into the k
ick and brought her other fist down on the injured thigh.
The Khadoran fell back, screaming. Blood roiled from the reopened gash, and the whole limb trembled. It required neither Dignity’s training nor experience to know that leg was about to give out entirely.
Still the woman refused to fall. Still she held the knife steady in her hand.
And while Dignity’s own vision was clearing, the vertigo fading, the ground still trembled. It only gradually dawned on her, to her growing horror, that each tremor was accompanied by a crushing boom.
Warjacks; warjacks resembling a mountain of steel sprouting from the soil, far nearer than the fringes of the siege. Around them swarmed soldiers, in far greater numbers than the previous team. A second unit of reinforcements had come to retrieve Vorona, and Dignity was out of time.
Vorona sneered and, as best her injury would permit, leapt for the fallen satchel and the prize within.
Dignity dove the other way, and came up clutching a fallen Winter Guard’s blunderbuss.
The weapon roared. Vorona tumbled aside as best she could and vanished, rolling behind a snowdrift. An ugly, uneven smear of blood marked her wake.
Was she alive? Dead? Dignity desperately needed to know, but the mighty ’jacks were raising arm-mounted cannon, the soldiers their blunt-nosed rifles. She even heard the baying of some vicious, ravenous beast from the forefront of the oncoming enemy.
Fighting every burning desire in her roiling soul, she sprinted instead to the satchel. Snagging it without slowing, she slung it over her shoulder and ran, a tide of gray furs and bloodred steel rising rapidly behind.
***
“Unidentified approach, Sergeant!”
It was far, far from the first time they’d heard that call. After making way to display for them the tumult and carnage of the ongoing siege, to show off the rolling multicolored throngs, winter had clamped its fists around them yet again. The flurries were light, but still thick enough to hide behind, and where the snow remained sheer, the less tangible haze was more than happy to fill in the gaps.
This was, in fact, the third such warning raised by the scouts. The first time, it had been a Cygnaran squad, pulling out to regroup and reequip. After a few moments of questioning to ensure that the uniforms weren’t faked or stolen, they’d allowed squad five to continue on their way, assuming they belonged to some local division other than their own.
On the second occasion, things hadn’t been so simple. Khadoran blood and scraps of uniform still clung to everyone’s boots.
Benwynne snapped the carbine to her shoulder, ready to take aim the instant she saw a target. Around her, the few surviving long-gunners did the same, while the trenchers crouched low over rifles or the last pair of surviving chain guns. From behind, she heard grinding as Wolfhound raised axe and cannon.
“Check your sightlines!” Benwynne snapped in reminder. She knew her people were exhausted beyond reason; knew it, because she felt the same. But they couldn’t afford the mistakes exhaustion so often heralded. “Remember, it could be—”
“Garland!” The call came from Private Markham, positioned near Wendell and the ’jack. “Hold fire!”
Damn, the kid’s got good eyes! It took Benwynne another few seconds to be certain, but he was absolutely right. Running like the legions of Cryx were on her heels and their dragon-god circling above, the spy burst from the thickening flurries. When she slid to a halt beside Benwynne, her gasps were ragged and uneven. The satchel swinging from her shoulder nearly pulled her over at the sudden stop.
“Is that . . . ?”
The winded spy could only nod. The sergeant felt something slimy uncoil from around her soul and slither away.
“Peeked . . . on my way . . . just to be sure . . .” Garland wheezed. “It’s in . . .”
Again the forward scouts warned of an approach, again the squad braced, and again it proved unnecessary. Ledeson staggered into view, looking only marginally less exhausted than the spy.
“Are you all that made it?” Benwynne asked softly.
“Renwick took a bullet before we killed most of the Winter Guardsmen.” Though bent and leaning on his knees, Ledeson raised his gaze to meet hers. “The last Red blew himself up with a grenade. Took Sterling and Shaw with him.”
Damn it! Damn, damn, damn . . . “And Gaust?”
“We . . . don’t know, Sergeant.”
“Morrow’s name . . .” How many more of us is this going to take?!
“Sergeant Bracewell,” Garland said, having finally caught her breath, “I’m sorry, but we have to mourn later. There’s a heavy squad just minutes behind me.”
Instantly, Benwynne was all business. “Nature and number?”
“I elected not to hang around and count. But multiple units of assault troops, at least one of which has a bloody drooling war-dog on a chain.
“And two heavy ’jacks bringing up the rear.” Garland shook her head. “It’ll take those longer to reach us, but the others can swarm us under, or at least delay us for the big guns to—”
“Go.”
“What?”
“Head northeast,” the sergeant ordered. Where’s this coming from? Who the hell’s talking? These aren’t my words, are they?
But they were. Benwynne knew what was coming, knew what had to be done—even if she couldn’t admit it, yet, to herself.
“You’ll find a steamboat, captained by a man called Loumbard. Ledeson and . . .” She studied her people, finally settling on the young long-gunner. “Markham. You two are on escort duty.”
“Sergeant—” Markham began, at the same time as Ledeson’s “With all due respect—”
“I’m not asking!”
Both men saluted and took position beside Garland.
“Markham, Loumbard knows you. Have him take you a few miles upstream at full steam. That should buy you whatever time we can’t.”
Garland’s shoulders tensed; Benwynne could see it even through the coat. “What do you mean, ‘that we can’t’?”
“Once you disembark,” she continued, ignoring the question, “you ought to be far enough from the front to cut south and then back around to Merywyn. Getting a boat home from there shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Sergeant—”
“You can’t ask us to—”
“I’m not—”
“You know what’s at stake here.” Her smile looked palpably artificial. It had to—she felt like she was stretching muscles she’d forgotten she had—but she forced it all the same. “It’s been an honor serving with you. Now go.”
Never had she seen three healthy adults move so stiffly, shuffle so reluctantly from sight, scarcely noting where they stepped because they were too busy looking back the way they’d come.
But they went, and if any tears were shed, the trio did Benwynne and the others the courtesy of concealing them until distance and weather swallowed them up.
“You all know what’s at stake here,” she repeated, this time to the tattered, sorry remains of what had so recently been one of Cygnar’s foremost Unorthodox Engagement Teams. “Garland has to get those documents back home. We cannot let the enemy catch her up.
“I’m sorry this falls to us, but we’re going to make the Reds a lot sorrier. I know you’ll make his Majesty, and all Cygnar, proud of you. As you’ve already made me.
“Hop to it!”
Snow fountained as trenchers dug shallow holes—poor cover indeed, but better than none—and jammed chain gun tripods deep into the slush. Wendell’s mechaniks swarmed around Wolfhound, ensuring its joints flexed smoothly, its cannon was clear. At random distances, in random directions, they scattered heavy shells, ensuring the ’jack and its support crew would have immediate access to ammunition.
Benwynne, as well as the remaining long-gunners, sought cover of their own. Most dropped to their bellies behind shallow bulges in the snow or the terrain beneath; several, the sergeant included, crouched in the lee of the sporadic evergreens.
“B
en . . .”
She recognized the voice; hell, she recognized the crunch of his steps. “You probably ought to find a more secure position, Master Sergeant. I don’t think this tree is broad enough to shelter the both of us.”
“We need to talk.”
In the distance, only lightly obscured by the freshly accumulating haze, the world began to bleed. Benwynne knew what she was seeing, long before the crimson smear resolved itself into individual troops.
“This really isn’t the time,” she pointed out.
“I don’t know that we’ll have another. Ben, please. I need you to hear this. What happened in Bainsmarket and Fisherbrook—”
“Don’t.” Benwynne’s palms were sweating, the lining of her gloves soaked despite the cold. So damn many of them . . .
And behind those, beyond the crimson bloom of the oncoming soldiers, loomed larger shapes. Not yet near enough to be clearly seen, not nearly so fast as the charging men, but unmistakable. Had the earth been dry and clear, she might already feel the footsteps; though she knew it was impossible, she swore she smelt the choking smoke of their furnaces.
“Don’t,” she said again, finally facing him—as much so she wouldn’t have to watch the oncoming storm, as for his sake. “Duty can be a . . . demanding liege. I understand. I really do.”
Wendell’s beard crinkled, but his smile was the saddest, Benwynne thought, that she’d ever seen. “But you don’t forgive.”
It was absolutely not a question.
“Master Ser—Wendell . . . I haven’t had time. And it . . .” The Khadorans were near enough, now, to distinguish their cries, and the feral baying of the war-hound, from the background chaos of the larger battle beyond. Perhaps, though the slate-hued daylight made it hard to be sure, even to see their breath on the air. Behind them, the scarlet-steel giants grew ever more solid, stepping from some half-forgotten nightmare into the waking world. “It doesn’t seem that I’m likely to, now.”
Her voice cracked, there at the end. The mechanik began to turn away.
“Wendell . . .” Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out. “For what it’s worth, I think . . . I would have tried.”