None of that mattered now. Salarum may have escaped his clutches last night, but he’d failed to stop the Kurrethi. Failed to stop the revolution that was coming, as surely as day followed night. Werrdun was dead. By the time that moronic daughter of his brought the old man’s corpse home tomorrow, Ven Dazarus would be installed as Emperor of Hurrunda. And his first act as Emperor would be to use all the resources now at his disposal, magical and otherwise, to track down Salarum and show him the error of his ways.
Ven Dazarus checked his watch. It was a little before two o’clock in the afternoon. He turned and shouted to the Kurrethi massed behind him.
“Let the revolution begin!”
THE REBEL ARMY marched forward into the city, moving first through the outskirts closest to the Hurrun Peaks. The streets here were almost empty. The sight of groaks walking down the road was impossible to miss, but only a few residents bothered to actually leave their houses and look on. Ven Dazarus guessed they were all watching the news streams, mourning their demon-loving governor and far too busy weeping to notice that the city was being taken right under their noses. The few that did come to their doors, or stopped in the street, just stood and stared. No-one protested or made a move to resist. A few dashed inside after realising who the rebels were, most likely to call the police, but Ven Dazarus gave no order to stop them. Let the police come; let them see how futile their resistance would be once the people themselves rallied behind the Kurrethi.
They moved on into more densely inhabited neighbourhoods. At this point a quarter of the Kurrethi force on either side of the column split off, heading east and west to execute a pincer movement as they advanced toward the centre of Hurrunda. Though stronger as a united force, Ven Dazarus knew that a single column could be easily trapped if the police were quick enough to act. Splitting up in this way made the rebels more difficult to pin down, and meant they could besiege more key police stations along the way.
All three units’ target was the same: the Heart of Kurreth, or ‘City Hall’ as Werrdun insisted on calling it, located at the very centre of the city. From its position, nine main streets stretched out through Hurrunda like the spokes of a wheel, stretching all the way to the Hurrun peaks north, east and west, and the shores of the Demirvan Sea to the south.
It was one such road they travelled on now, though Werrdun had also changed its name. In the days of Kurrethi rule it had been called the Eyes of Kurreth, the great North road that led from the Heart to the edge of the old trail over the Hurrun Peaks. Now it was called ‘First Avenue.’ The units that split off from the main column were also following two of these main roads, the Ears and Arms. There was no profit in subtlety or subterfuge, not today. For this revolution to succeed it was vital that the people bear witness; the Kurrethi must be visible and public, to show the city’s inhabitants that they did not fear the late governor’s forces.
It was here that they encountered the first signs of resistance. Civilian vehicles moved aside for them, their occupants staring in amazement at the army marching past, but at a junction ahead stood a squad of Hurrundan police, intending to block the rebels’ path. Ven Dazarus ordered his men to keep going and ready their weapons. He would not shoot first, but would retaliate if the police refused to let them pass.
At least, that was the official policy. In fact Ven Dazarus had also sent his best men, all of them trusted ex-soldiers from his own army units, to scout ahead of the main unit. One of their tasks was to sabotage any serious police response. As the Kurrethi army approached the police line, Ven Dazarus caught a flash of movement out the corner of his eye, on a rooftop nearby. He turned back to his men.
“Stand by,” he said. “Wait for the shots.”
Two seconds later a burst of blaster fire rang out, echoing down the street. A burst of entropy magic slammed into the ground in front of Ven Dazarus’ groak, leaving a blackened trough of crumbling dust.
“Return fire!” he shouted.
The rebels opened fire. Half of the cops were already lying withered and catatonic on the ground before they realised what was happening and opened fire themselves. The truth was, they hadn’t shot first—one of the rebel scouts had, from a position behind the police line. It gave Ven Dazarus the deniability he needed.
Civilians scattered out of the road and into the nearest homes. Some dived for cover, or kept running into other streets.
When the dust settled, the police squad was defeated with just two fatalities among the rebels. Ven Dazarus was annoyed to note that the police were using bullet-firing rifles, not entropy weapons as he’d expected. Still, history was written by the winners; the story of this revolution, when told to the world, would ensure the Kurrethi were revered as heroes.
He ordered his men onward. The rebels stepped over the aged bodies of the fallen cops, or crushed them under heavy groak legs without a thought.
The battle for Hurrunda was underway.
A MILE FURTHER in, another unit of police tried to stop them. The rebels were approaching the business district now, leaving the residential areas behind. The street was empty of civilians. By now word of the insurrection had spread, and the ordinary people of Hurrunda were hiding in their homes. Besides a few cheers and waved hands out of office windows, Ven Dazarus had hardly seen anyone on the street besides police officers; and not even many of those, which was a pleasant surprise. Perhaps support for the rebels was more widespread than even he had hoped.
This time the police had set up a roadblock using groundcars, accompanied by an airpod, a small four-person airship. Police used them primarily as reconnaissance and tracking vehicles, but they were light and maneuverable enough to also be effective as a firing platform for a trained gunman. The airpod swept over the rooftops and Ven Dazarus saw a gunner leaning out the side, rifle in hand, ready to lay down covering fire. He only hoped his scouts had seen it in time to get under cover.
He needn’t have worried. As the airpod descended to back up the police, two men ran into the street from the entrance of a nearby apartment building. They wore scarves over their lower faces, obscuring their identity, and carried a large bag between them. Ven Dazarus watched as they took cover behind a parked groundcar, opened the bag and pulled out a miniature magmine launcher. An old-fashioned but effective anti-aircraft weapon, Ven Dazarus had seen it used many times during the war.
One of the cops spoke through a PA system. “Halt!” he shouted. “This is an illegal demonstration, and you are all under arrest. Lower your weapons, dismount your animals and lay on the ground or we will open fire!”
On any other day, Ven Dazarus would have laughed. Were they really that stupid? Did they think this was just a protest march? But not today. After all, this was a demonstration of sorts—one of Kurrethi strength and domination.
“Keep moving,” he shouted back to the rebels. “Prepare to fire if attacked!” His troops raised their weapons, ready to ‘defend’ themselves.
But the men crouched behind the groundcar weren’t part of his unit. They didn’t know the rules. As the rebels and police both prepared to open fire, the masked men sighted up their launcher and fired. The shell rocketed into the air and burst open just a few feet in front of the airpod. The explosion itself was harmless, but it released the shell’s contents; a dozen miniature floating magmines.
The airpod gunner recoiled from the blast and shouted to the pilot, who attempted to pull up and evacuate. But the magmines were too close. They homed in on the ship like moths to a flame, attaching themselves to the hull.
The airpod exploded in a deafening fireball. Below it, the police scattered for cover. They fired at the two men behind the groundcar and Ven Dazarus’ men alike. One of the groaks crashed to the ground, crushing its rider as it fell. The beast had a leg injury—not enough to kill it, but it was out of action, as was the rebel lying trapped under it. The Kurrethi returned fire, filling the air with the shriek of entropy magic.
In less than a minute it was all over. The police lay fall
en and slumped over their groundcars. The airpod wreckage burned in their midst, spreading fire to the other vehicles.
“Advance,” shouted Ven Dazarus. “The fire’s spreading! We must move now, before the groaks become restless!”
“Wait!” The shout came from the men with the magmine launcher. They’d survived the firefight, using the groundcar as cover. Now they approached Ven Dazarus, their hands in the air.
Friddin, the officer who had questioned Salarum’s thinman, raised his blaster and ordered the men to halt. They did, and pulled down the scarves covering their features.
“Hail, Ven Dazarus!” one of them shouted.
The rebel leader laughed. The men were ex-Kurrethi, two of the members who had quit when he first rose to power in the rebel camp. “Well, well,” he said. “I see you’ve picked a side after all. Are there many more like you?”
“Yes,” said the man who’d hailed him. “Hundreds. The city will be yours within hours... sir.”
Ven Dazarus smiled.
THE PRODIGAL REBEL was right.
By the time they reached the Heart of Kurreth, Ven Dazarus’ unit had almost doubled in size, reinforced by insurgents from all over the city who had come to join the fight. After the airpod’s destruction police resistance was minimal, and civilian resistance non-existent. In fact, it appeared most of the Hurrundan police had simply abandoned their posts. The units sent to besiege the stations reported later that many of them had only a skeleton crew of staff and surrendered immediately. Some of the police even welcomed the Kurrethi, vindicating once and for all his conviction that the Kurrethi had a legion of supporters who remained silent all these years to avoid persecution at the hands of Werrdun and his cronies.
When he reached the Heart, Ven Dazarus found that one of the flanking units had already secured it. They formed an honour guard from the plaza facing the building all the way up its stone steps. He dismounted his groak and walked into the building with his head held high.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and the revolution was already over. The Kurrethi had taken back their city.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AT SIX O’CLOCK Ven Dazarus stood on the steps of the Heart of Kurreth and faced the gathered crowd. His lieutenants had called every single news stream broadcaster in the city, and judging by the massive press presence at the front of the crowd, every single one had turned up. Not that he expected anything else. Behind the press stood thousands of people, ordinary citizens, waiting for him to usher in this new age.
He would not disappoint them.
“People of Hurrunda, great city of Kurreth,” he began. “My name is Ven Dazarus, leader of the true Kurrethi and now your Emperor. Two hours ago we wrested control of the city from the grasp of those last, wretched few still loyal to Werrdun the Usurper. We did this with a minimum of violence that could only be achieved by a group who have the popular support of the masses. Even the police, who have hunted and oppressed us in Werrdun’s name for so many years, came to their senses and laid down their weapons. Not a single man, woman or child died today, proving that the Law of Kurreth will usher in an age of peace, prosperity and spiritual well-being for you all.” That last was a lie, of course, but those who had died were in his view soldiers, be they Werrdun’s police or his own Kurrethi. No civilian had died. That was the important thing, and how he justified the lie to himself.
“This is a new beginning for the people of our great city,” he continued, “and from dawn tomorrow we shall begin the immediate implementation of Kurrethi law and custom. We will not tarry, or delay, or renege. We will free this city of the corruption and perversion in which it is drowning. We will free you all from the inequality of capitalism and the fear of political correctness run rampant.
“We will free you to be true Kurrethi, and let your spirits be filled with joy.”
He paused for effect and scanned the crowd for a reaction. The press hung on his every word. Dozens of vidrecorders watched and broadcast everything he did. Reporters without cameras held out audiopods or scribbled in notepads. He wondered how many of the cameras were streaming live. Probably all of them. What else was there to report on in Hurrunda today? Ven Dazarus and the Kurrethi weren’t on the news stream, they were the news stream.
Behind the press, the civilian masses watched him with a similar rapture. He’d considered placing groak riders throughout the crowd, to ensure there was no trouble, but ultimately decided that could be interpreted as coercion. It was important not just to Ven Dazarus, but to the city and the world at large, that the people of Hurrunda were seen to support the Kurrethi without compulsion, as he had always known they would. Instead the groaks had been positioned near the building at the side of the plaza, inconspicuous but ready to quell any possible trouble. Gorrd stood with them, keeping the beasts tame despite the noise and crush of the crowd.
Some of the people burst into applause at Ven Dazarus’ words. The rest waited patiently for him to indicate he’d finished. He knew what that indication would be, what they expected of him. He’d waited for it himself, ever since joining the Kurrethi.
“There is one more thing I want to show you,” he said. “Something that you will, I promise, remember for all your days to come.”
He put a finger underneath his collar and pulled his shirt open. Underneath, resting against his skin, was Werrdun’s necklace. He’d put it on the night before after nearly losing it to Salarum, and hadn’t removed it since. It was the only way he could be absolutely certain of having it present for this historic moment.
“As you all know, this was the symbol of Werrdun’s office. It was gifted to him by vile Ekklorn after a bargain was struck. In return for everlasting power, Werrdun allowed Ekklorn’s influence to course through Hurrunda’s veins like a foul poison.”
Ven Dazarus removed the necklace, lifting it over his head and holding it up for all the crowd to see.
“It is the mark of a man who consorted with devils and darkness to maintain his power. I took it from him, to show you how false and passing that power was. Real leaders do not need trinkets to prove their fitness to rule! Real leaders do not need to bargain with Ekklorn! Real leaders need only one thing—the courage and strength to lead!”
He threw the necklace down on the steps. The crowd gasped. Ven Dazarus held out his hand to Friddin, who handed Ven Dazarus a heavy mallet.
He raised the mallet above his head, pausing just long enough to make sure that all the cameras were focused on him, that everyone present in the square would witness what he was about to do.
He swung the hammer down.
The necklace shattered. The gems split into shards. Thousands of fragments scattered down the Heart of Kurreth’s steps like a waterfall of rainbows. The links twisted, burst and flew into the air before returning to ground with a hollow metallic ring.
The necklace was destroyed. Ven Dazarus turned to face the crowd.
He had expected them to applaud, or cheer, or at the very least be watching him. But they weren’t. They were all looking up, every last one of them, at something above. He followed their gaze.
The sky was filled with airships.
Hundreds of men jumped out of the ships and descended on the plaza like a swarm of jungle insects. Flashes of light from the parachutists signalled a hail of bullets that smacked into the roof of city hall. Masonry and dust rained down on Ven Dazarus and the Kurrethi soldiers, and the crowd began to panic.
But he’d expected something like this. They were sitting ducks up there, and now that the rebels had taken control of the police stations, they had the firepower to deal with such an assault. “Return fire!” he shouted to his soldiers. “Call the stations and tell them to fire with everything they have. Kill them all!” All around the Heart of Kurreth, his soldiers raised their rifles and took aim. Ven Dazarus laughed. “Is this the best they can do?”
“Not quite,” said a voice in the crowd. It sounded quite familiar.
Ven Dazarus turned.
“Who said that?”
“I did. And so does my army.”
Nicco Salarum stood on the stone steps, aiming a blaster at the Kurrethi leader. And behind him stood the entire press corps, brandishing assault rifles.
WEARING A LONG coat and hat, Nicco had watched Ven Dazarus from amid the throng of journalists and broadcasters. He was near the front, but the coat covered his filthy clothes and the hat hid his skin colour. The rebel leader hadn’t even looked in his direction, much less noticed him.
Nicco had guessed Ven Dazarus would want to destroy the necklace in public. The rebel leader had made too much of its ‘demonic’ nature not to dispose of it. And Nicco already knew Ven Dazarus had a flair for the theatrical.
So when he saw a Kurrethi emerge from city hall carrying a large hammer halfway through Ven Dazarus’ speech, Nicco knew this was the moment. He pressed a finger to the tiny radio in his ear and whispered, “Move in. Repeat, move in.”
Above them, the entire Hurrundan fleet of forty-three airships soared in from over the sea and took their positions. Nicco heard murmurs from the crowd as they saw the ships block out the sun, but Ven Dazarus was oblivious to them. The ‘emperor’ was much too wrapped up in his moment of self-absorbed glory to pay attention to whatever was going on above him.
The airships came to a stop and hovered in the air just as Ven Dazarus brought the hammer down on the necklace. Once again Nicco pressed the earbud, and this time whispered, “Go, go, go!”
Stealing Life Page 24