by Sales, Ian
Ormuz swore under his breath. He stopped at a junction and peered down at the knot of men milling about beneath him. He saw troopers in red smocks, and troopers in red jackets and black cuirasses. As he watched, a chevron of soldiers in dark blue jackets and green cuirasses forced their way along the trench. They laid about themselves with hammers and the enemy fell before them.
Turning to his marines, Ormuz pointed down. “Come on.”
He jumped.
The trench was deeper than he had thought. He hit a red-clad trooper, winding himself and flattening the soldier. His stumbled forwards—
To see a hammer swing towards him. He ducked, pulled his sword in and thrust foward.
The wood beneath his feet reverberated at two heavy impacts and bounced him half an inch into the air. He turned to see two green-jacketed brutes give hefty swings of their boarding-axes.
Down here, Ormuz could see little. He was no taller than the troopers about him—and smaller than many of them. How would he find Ahasz in this?
A marine jostled his left. He saw a Housecarl approaching him, and stabbed out with his sword. The man fell back, bleeding from a hole in his neck.
A body tripped and fell in front of him. It hit the ground with a wet thud, and Ormuz saw blood pouring freely from a wound on one shoulder. Someone jostled him from behind. A flash of green—one of his marines, protecting his back.
He did not worry for his safety. He had only one thing on his mind: the Serpent. There was no time for fear. His marines would see he came to no harm, even in a ruck like this. Not that there was a great deal of room for swinging hammers and maces and boarding-axes.
He spotted a dark blue jacket, fronted with gold frogging. An officer. Ormuz grinned. He pushed forward, shouldering a woman in a red smock out of the way as her mace impacted with a trooper in a grey jacket. A space formed ahead of Ormuz and the enemy officer stepped into it. It was a moment before Ormuz recognised the man’s regiment—the Imperial Gold Watch. Definitely an enemy, then. And a regimental-captain by his insignia.
Ormuz nodded his head in acknowledgement and stepped forward, his sword held at shoulder level, point steady. The regimental-captain put up his own blade and the two lengths of steel met with a rasping slither. Ormuz rotated his wrist, flicking his point down while using his blade to block his opponent’s. The man had seen the manoeuvre before and parried quickly.
The melee was moving in closer about Ormuz. His marines could keep the space about the two duellists open for only so long. He needed to finish this quickly.
He lunged.
It was a fake. As Ormuz moved forwards, he twisted sideways and lashed out with the pommel of his sword. He felt the regimental-captain’s blade slide past his chest and then his hand thudded into the man’s face. As his opponent fell back, Ormuz pushed him to the ground and stabbed him in one eye.
Ormuz had not dropped his gaze as he killed the Imperial Gold Watch officer, but he felt the blood spurt up and hit his hand. He shook it, flinging red droplets across those surrounding him. A trooper in a red jacket and black cuirass gave him a digusted look. It was his last—his expression had only just settled when a boarding-axe chopped into the side of his head, taking off his helmet and everything above the brow.
Grimacing, Ormuz turned away. He stabbed someone to one side who might block his way and pushed forward. His marines followed. Where was Ahasz?
Ahead, he saw a maelstrom of red and dark blue. The troopers in dark blue wore gold cuirasses: Imperial Gold Watch. The Gromada Dragoons, who fought for the Admiral, had dark blue jackets and green cuirasses. And the red—Imperial Housecarls or Vonshuan militia? No, they wore red helmets, so certainly milita.
So many enemy troopers bunched together. They must be hiding Ahasz. Ormuz began to push his way forward.
In the close confines of the trench, his relatively small size worked to his advantage. Conversely, his sword was useless. He held it against his side, point down, there being insufficient space for him to bring it to a guard position. Behind him, his marine escort began chopping their way into the packed mass of soldiers. He could hear the thud of boarding-axes cutting through cuirasses and helmets, the meaty thwocks of the blades biting into flesh, the screams and howls and grunts as the enemy troopers died. Still he forced his way forward, treading on boots, gagging at the stink rising from the stagnant water in the bottom of the trench, from the unwashed men and women he was pressed against.
This ruck was not his idea of a battle. He remembered little of the taking of Empress Glorina—running and leaping and thrusting with his sword and parries and ripostes and people dying and blood everywhere. This was a farmyard by comparison and he was just one of the animals. It was not his idea of a battle, crammed into this reeking trench, unable to fight with his sword.
Ormuz began to fear for his life. He had never done so before, he had always been focused on fighting and had known he had the ability to win. But this he could not control, this was not a situation in which his skill with a blade would allow him to win through. He began to push forward with more force, trying hard not to succumb to panic. His hand was locked about his sword’s hilt and he could feel his knuckles straining. He looked up to see a series of bright lines etch themselves across the louring sky, and silhouettes running along the trench’s parapets and boats still coming in to land in the District.
And he wondered if they’d find his body among all the others when they finally came to clear up after the battle.
A space suddenly opened up on Ormuz’s left and a hulking figure in green appeared in it. He glanced sideways and was surprised to recognise Boat-Sergeant Alus. Was Rinharte nearby? He looked back over his shoulder but could not see her. He saw a number of blue jackets but none of the exact shade worn by the Imperial Navy. And, given her height, Rinharte would be easy to spot in the maul in the trench.
The boat-sergeant moved in front of Ormuz. Enemy troopers fell to either side with each meaty swing of his boarding-axe. And now Tatakia, Sniskutte and Valka had joined Ormuz, and he knew that though Rinharte might not be present the four marines were following her orders.
They were through the knot of Imperial Gold Watch and Vonshuan militia. There was no sign of Ahasz. Ormuz ducked a swinging mace and stabbed another trooper with his sword. Blood sprayed across him as one of the marine’s axes chopped into a neck. Ormuz swore and continued forward.
There was a junction here, a trench leading back from the road. It was thick with enemy troopers. A Housecarl officer led them. On spotting Ormuz, the regimental-lieutenant yelled and increased his pace. He brandished his sword. His target was clearly Ormuz himself.
Now was not the time to wonder how he had been recognised. Yes, he resembled Ahasz, but a much younger Ahasz. Nor did he sport the duke’s neat goatee.
The Housecarl held his sword before him, arm straight, as he ran forward. Ormuz watched the line of the man’s arm, the angle of his wrist. The only real defence against such an attack was to get out of the way. But there was little room for evasion in the trench. A twist of the wrist and the point of the regimental-lieutenant’s sword could hit anywhere.
Ormuz waited.
The Housecarl’s sword-point drew nearer, was no more than six inches away. The regiment-lieutenant turned his wrist. The point moved to the right and down. Ormuz shied away and stepped back. His own sword slid into the Housecarl’s torso, just below his raised arm. The man’s attack had left him open.
The regimental-lieutenant stumbled and fell to his knees. He dropped his sword. It hit the wooden decking with a dull thud. Blood geysered from his side and he toppled forward.
Ormuz had already passed him. He ducked a hammer, grabbed the shaft of another and altered its swing. His marines were beside him. Something clanged and he saw Alus’ axe cleave a helmetted head in two. Ormuz lashed out with the pommel of his sword. He kicked at a red-clad knee, striking it with the heel of his boot. The trooper collapsed with a howl.
Swords were not made for melees such as this. Ormuz had to keep his arm up and his blade down. It made him vulnerable. He did not need to swing: regulation swords were not made for cutting. But his killing point was forty-five inches from his hand.
Troopers were using their maces and hammers as short staffs. Pressed body to body, they hit out with the shafts of their weapons. With no room to swing, their blows bounced from helmets and cuirasses, stunning and bruising but not killing.
Ormuz reached out and grabbed Alus, who fought beside him. He pulled down on his arm and gestured ahead. The two of them lowered their shoulders and barrelled forward. Ormuz did not have the weight or size to break through on his own. But the huge boat-sergeant made up for both of them. Troopers fell to the ground as they piled into them.
In moments, Ormuz and Alus were through. Behind them, the other three members of the boat-squad shot out of the tangle of fighting bodies. The Housecarls did not turn—Ormuz could see light blue jackets beyond them: Winter Rangers.
Ormuz was out of the trenches now. Behind him, the defile led back into the melee. Ahead of him, a broad slope, once grass but now churned mud, led down to a camp of pavilions and troop-carriers. Parked beside them, and firing occasionally, were half a dzoen basilisks. As he cast his gaze across the enemy camp, a basilisk fired, and a bolt of incandescent light hurtled overhead and struck the Imperial Palace behind him.
Running up the slope towards him were figures in red. They carried maces and wore smocks rather than cuirasses. Vonshuan house troops. One figure in a dark blue jacket appeared caught among them, as if by mistake. With a shock, Ormuz recognised himself. The self-same auburn hair. A face that could be his own. But older. Two decades older, perhaps. With a neat goatee.
The Duke of Ahasz.
Ormuz charged down the slope to meet the man from whom he had been cloned.
“There he is!” Ormuz pointed with his sword.
Outpacing the boat-squad, Ormuz ran forward, brandishing his blade. Ahasz saw him and a frown crossed his face.
The Vonshuan militia opened up, forming a semicircle about their duke but allowing Ormuz to approach. He did so, slowing to a walk and bringing up his sword.
“So, we meet in person at last,” Ahasz said, once Ormuz was standing before him. He spoke loudly, to be heard above the noise of battle.
“Despite your best efforts.” Ormuz stepped closer.
Ahasz did not reply. He turned to the right and held his sword at guard. Ormuz followed suit. They slowly circled each other. Ahasz flicked his point but Ormuz had seen. He met the duke’s blade with his own. Ahasz feinted to the left. Ormuz did not defend himself, recognising the ploy. He gambled on a lunge but the duke slipped easily away from the point. The move left Ormuz open and he scrambled back to recover. Ahasz did not press his attack.
Ormuz was out-matched and he knew it. He had thought perhaps he was as good as the duke. The ability was innate, despite the changes the nomosphere had wrought on him. Ahasz and Ormuz were identical in all physical aspects but age. It had seemed obvious they would be evenly matched.
But the duke had much the greater experience. Decades of sword-fighting, in fact. Ormuz was already a master swordsman, but Ahasz had passed beyond that many years before.
Ahasz stepped forward, raised his arm and pressed an attack. Ormuz parried. The duke’s blade flicked to a new quarter and then, lightning-fast, to a third. Ormuz struggled to meet the duke’s blade. He put out a hand to parry. Ahasz’s blade whipped against his wrist and he cried out. It had drawn blood but it had not cut deep.
He tried for another lunge, going high and then dropping his point. Ahasz met it across his body, moved forward and riposted. Ormuz scrambled back.
He was not quick enough.
He felt sharp pain in his side and let out an oath. Ahasz’s blade slipped from his flesh; he felt it withdraw. He put a hand to the wound and felt blood pooling beneath his tunic. Each breath began to burn and a numbness spread above his hip.
As Ormuz’s wound bled, so it slowed him. He struggled to meet the duke’s attacks, jerking awkwardly out of the way when the duke evaded his parries and riposted. He felt blood leaking down his side and onto his thigh.
He stumbled on a ridge of mud and found it hard to recover. Ahasz stepped back as Ormuz tottered to the side for several steps. Ormuz turned back to face the duke. Ahasz had dropped the point of his sword. The duke stood there, blood splattered across his jacket, smeared across his face, leaking from the blade of his sword… He appeared drawn, haggard, dirty.
Ormuz lifted his sword. He needed no favours from Ahasz.
Then he noticed the quiet. The sounds of battle had faded. No crash of weapons, no screams of the dying, no blasts of basilisks. He looked up and about him. Everyone, friend and foe alike, had stopped. Ormuz turned round to look back at Palace Road. He saw lines of troopers looking down into the trenches. In the defile, he saw others being herded. The militia troopers surrounding himself and Ahasz were in turn surrounded. By soldiers in grey jackets.
The Admiral had won.
A wave of sound seemed to roll across the District, a rattling thudding crash, as the enemy threw down their weapons.
Ormuz sheathed his sword. He looked to Alus, who stood some five feet away, and gave the giant marine a grin.
A gap formed in the line of troops on Palace Road and two figures appeared. The Admiral and Major Skaria. They walked down the slope towards Ormuz and Ahasz.
Ormuz turned to the duke, stepped forward until he stood before him and said, “It’s over.”
The duke gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “It’s only just begun,” he replied.
“I would have your parole,” Ormuz asked. He was beginning to feel light-headed from his wound, but was not going to let the duke surrender to anyone else.
“You have it.” Ahasz let out a low laugh. “Whatever good it may do you.”
The Admiral arrived. She ignored Ormuz and her gaze remained fixed on Ahasz. “Ariman. You are beaten,” she said. Her voice was flat, expressionless, and Ormuz thought that curious.
She glanced at him and frowned when she saw the blood. “You are wounded.” That same tone of voice. “Have it seen to, and quickly, Casimir.”
“The duke has given me his parole,” Ormuz said. He’d not have anyone else claim that. This army here, the fleet in orbit Shuto, they had come here to the capital at his behest, following his destiny. He’d taken it upon himself to defeat the Serpent and that was exactly what he had done.
And let no one say different.
“Yes, yes.” She gave a dismissive gesture. “See to your wound.”
He turned from the Admiral and the duke, and limped down the slope to where surgeon’s mates were checking the many bodies sprawled on the ground. As he passed Skaria, he gave him a tired grin—followed by a wince as the pain of his wound bit deep.
“You did good, my lord,” Skaria said, and turned back to watch the Admiral.
Ormuz had not walked far before he was spotted by a surgeon’s mate. She wore a tan jacket with green cuffs, and over it the short red tabard of a surgeon’s mate. He recognised the colours as one of their regiments, but could not remember its name. She hurried towards him, pulling off the pack on her back as she did so. He stopped and waited for her to reach him. From her expression of concern, she plainly recognised him despite his lack of uniform.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, halting before him and dropping her pack at her feet.
He stood there, gazing back up the slope at the Admiral and Ahasz, as the surgeon’s mate treated his wound. He wondered what the two of them were discussing. Skaria was within earshot, so he had no cause to feel jealous. They had been lovers once, yes; but that had been many years before. Although perhaps they did not quite seem to be enemies as they spoke to each other.
Despite the battle they had just fought.
Despite the battlefield on which they stood.
&
nbsp; Despite the moans of the dying, the smell of burnt earth, of blood and death.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Ahasz felt no satisfaction as he was led through the ruined Imperial Palace. He had walked these passages many times before, spent time in these chambers, and it pained him to see what his siege had done to them. The burnt remains of paintings lay on the floor beneath where they had hung. Statues had been reduced to little more than rubble, their original subject indecipherable. Mosaic floors were gapped and cracked. Some rooms they passed were completely gutted, their interiors black, smoky and charred.
The Admiral led the way, the young clone Ormuz at her shoulder. Ahasz himself walked between two rows of Imperial Marines. They had rescued Inspector Finesz from the stockade and she kept him company. He directed a wry smile at her.
“You made a bit of a mess,” she said quietly.
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“Of course it could,” she replied. “There were other ways.”
“I did what I thought was necessary.”
The lifts were not working, which was no surprise. The Admiral pushed open a cracked panel in the passage wall, revealing a service corridor used by proletarian staff and the foot of a flight of stairs. Having grown up in the Palace, the Admiral likely knew all its passages and ways—even those used only by proles.
It was a tight fit on the staircase. They could not climb three abreast, and so Ahasz found himself penned in by pea-green jackets and Finesz pushed back somewhere behind him. He glanced back but could not see her over the marines’ shoulders.
A voice drifted down from ahead—Ormuz: “How many floors must we climb?”
“You need not join us, if your wound prevents it,” replied the Admiral.
“No. I need to be with you.”
“We are heading for the Imperial Apartments—the twelfth floor and above.”
Ahasz heard a groan behind him and, knowing it was Finesz, could not help barking a laugh.