He knew most casualties would come at this stage of the battle, and silently prayed for his troops’ safety to whatever gods might be listening.
As soon as his forces were in range of the Loyalists’ heavy weapons, low thuds echoed in the distance. The wind carried the screams of the soldiers cut to pieces by shrapnel. In Parad’s mind, he was marching among them. Sick rose to his mouth. He spat acid as he raised his binoculars again. Thick plumes of mushroom-shaped smoke rose among the advancing troops.
He had left a small part of the cavalry with Tang, instructing him to throw them into the battle as late as possible. His hope had been that Crusoe would take the bait without having to sacrifice it. He pursed his lips. They would not be so lucky.
He watched with dismay as the cavalry joined the troops crashing against the wall. The thuds were now continuous. His hands trembled at the sight of people and horses getting cut to pieces by the artillery. With no siege equipment, the attack amounted to suicide, but they had to convince Crusoe to leave the safety of his fortifications.
Like the sea crushing against a rock, the attacking wave broke against the walls to withdraw deflated. As the defeated men retreated, the fortress gates opened at last to let jubilant Loyalists pour out. Then Parad had a nasty surprise; a mounted Armband unit showed up from the far side of the hill to give chase.
A plume of dust made him focus on the gate. He let out a curse. One after another, two dozen elephants came out of the stronghold. He was counting on his army’s long lances to stop Crusoe’s cavalry. But lances were useless against elephants.
Crap.
Gauld residence, Jonia, Jonian Democracies
Teo
“You idiot,” Paul roared. A vein pulsed on his forehead. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
Teo had just returned to Jonia after a few brief weeks in Magna. News of the Temple Hill incident had already reached Paul, who had been yelling at him for over an hour now.
“Is that why you came here last time?” Paul rasped. “To make sure you were as far as possible from Anthea when it happened?”
Teo had had about as much of the yelling as he could take. His face twitched and flushed with thinly disguised rage. “Enough!” He slammed his goblet on the table, denting it and spilling its contents on the polished wood. “You know I’m only here because of my father-in-law. No one else suspected me. He was so afraid Anthea would find out, he made his daughter divorce me. ‘Ooh, I’m old and scared. We’ve already fought one war for you, don’t want another.’ The bastard.”
Paul started to yell something, but Teo cut him off.
“Then, he had the nerve to exile me. Not officially, of course, but he made it perfectly clear that my presence in Magna would not be tolerated. Such a coward. Anthea never did find out. What did he take me for? My guy was such a loser, he let himself be killed on the spot. Why would anyone suspect that this was anything but the work of a nutcase?”
Paul glared at him. “If you’re so sure no one suspects you, why not return to Anthea?”
“Actually, I did consider it. But I’m still a wanted man there, remember? Anyway, it’s an emotional time for the city. Wouldn’t want to rub their face in it.”
Paul threw his hands in the air. “What did you think would happen anyway? I mean, if Sol died?”
Teo’s eyes focused in the distance. Cypress trees swayed in the breeze. He crawled to his crooked legs and pattered to the window. For a moment he said nothing, staring at the beautiful sight of the setting sun dressing everything in warm amber hues. Behind the emerald trees, the sea sparkled and glistened as if made of liquid gold. After a long while, he spoke, his eyes still fixed in the horizon.
“If Sol died … Everything was in place. My people were ready to attack. The Bulls, the Poor, the Sea Lions, everyone. They’d only blame each other. Then, my friends would demand my return to bring peace to the city. I would accept graciously, undo Sol’s reforms—the masses should never wield power—and rule Anthea uncontested.”
Paul rolled his goblet in his hands, ignoring a few stray drops that stained his white sleeves. “But she survived.”
Teo turned his back to the window and crossed his arms. “Not only that. She’s strengthened her position. She’s invulnerable now. It’s unethical, is what it is. How can a person use their brother’s death like that?”
“The brother you murdered?” Paul spat the words out.
Teo scowled. “That was an accident. And now she’s stronger than ever. I hear that Saul’s death has changed her—not for the better, I’m sure.” He refilled his goblet. “Anyway, enough about that,” he said after a brief pause. It was payback time. “How about you? The city of Jonia, de facto capital of the entire region, pride of the Western Sea. How’re things over here?”
Paul’s face turned to stone. “Great.”
Teo leaned forward, like a cat playing with a captive mouse. “Is that right? Cause I’ve heard the region’s finances have seen better days.”
“Sure, we’ve had our share of problems, what with the war and all. Nothing to worry about, though. Anyway, the war could soon be over.”
Teo grabbed his goblet and leaned back on his pillows again. “Good, good. I did notice that the port was empty. Didn’t it used to be filled with merchants? Nothing strange about that, then. I’m sure that you still make a handy profit from commerce.” He took a sip of sweet wine to hide a smirk. Crusoe’s sudden war had dried up all commerce in the Capital. Jonia was probably close to bankruptcy. Time to rub salt in the wound. “And the Capital’s Caretaker, no problems there, I trust?” he asked innocently.
Jonians had blamed the old Caretaker for their troubles. The man had simply been following Styx’s orders, but the Jonians seemed to care little for the distinction between him and his master. Just before Teo’s arrival to Jonia, a mob had thrown the man out of his office through a window. He had landed on a cart filled with manure, so it was just his pride that had suffered, but no one knew what Styx would make of such a slight.
Paul’s eyes hardened. “Is there a point to this?”
Teo took another sip and plonked the dented goblet on the table. It wobbled, but somehow managed to stay upright. “I may be able to help.”
“How?”
“You might need someone to put in a good word for you. As you know, I’m good friends with Styx.”
This was an exaggeration, of course, although Teo was one of the few who did not think of her as a monster, knowing first-hand how easy it was for good people like him to do terrible things. He had been cultivating his friendship with her for a long time, spending a fortune on gifts.
Paul pursed his lips. “Of course you are.”
Teo ignored the sarcastic tone. “As such, I may be able to offer my assistance.”
Paul stood up and paced the room. “What do you want?”
Teo let his smile slide off his face. “Well, how about I pay her a visit and make sure she doesn’t raze your cities to the ground?”
Paul stopped pacing and froze before Teo. “What’s in it for you?”
“Gold,” Teo said, grinning. “Lots of it, I hope. Which you’ll pay me to make sure she forgives you all for the Caretaker’s … erm … accident.” He raised his goblet to a toast.
It was Paul’s turn to grin. “Let her come. We’ll be ready for her.”
Teo’s almost choked on his wine. Had he heard correctly? He’d anticipated a good old-fashioned haggle, not a declaration of war. Was Jonia considering a revolt? He knew people hated Styx; not just because of the war, but because Jonian cities gazed with envy upon their western brethren, seeing what it was like to be self-ruled. Teo hardly blamed them for wanting the same for themselves.
His mind raced, examining which angle benefited him the most. He had many friends in Jonia, but even more in the Capital. A handsome reward would await anyone warning Styx of unanticipated trouble. He studied Paul; they both had their poker faces on. His friend was loved by many for his kind man
ners, but Teo knew they were both cut from the same cloth. Both were ruthless and ambitious leaders, although Paul achieved his goals without rustling any feathers, whereas trouble followed Teo everywhere.
Teo drained his goblet and got up. “Well, it’s been great seeing you again, but I’m afraid I must rest now. It’s getting late, and I’m still exhausted from the journey.” He yawned and stretched theatrically. He felt Paul’s eyes burn a hole in his back as he exited the elegant room.
Surprisingly enough, no guards stopped him. He let out a deep sigh of relief as he stepped onto the noisy street. Night was approaching fast, but he had no time for rest. Every minute counted now. He would not even return to his room. He had to leave Jonia before Paul changed his mind about letting him go.
Petria
October 31, Parad
The dull pounding of the canons finally stopped to allow the Loyalists to give chase. A brief series of explosions sounded in the distance, almost lost amongst the sounds of the faraway battle. Gella’s unit had detonated the charges painstakingly placed the night before. He prayed she had timed it right; timing was everything, and they had but one shot at it.
The Loyalists chased Tang’s troops back towards the bridge, narrowing the gap between the two armies. From afar, a thick cloud approached, like a furious sandstorm. The ground shook with a slight tremor.
The plan he and Gella had come up with unfolded before his eyes. Her job had been to guide the herd of buffalo she had spotted towards the centre of the field, where he hoped the Loyalists would be. Parad said a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening as the stampede closed in on the troops. A golden cloud of dust surrounded the panicked beasts. The ground trembled under their hooves.
Parad’s mind raced as he tried to estimate where it would intersect with the Loyalists, and a deep sigh of relief escaped his lips. It left his troops safe. Somehow, Gella had done it. He put the binoculars down and mounted his stallion, signalling his men to start their descent.
His heart pounded. Cold sweat trickled down his spine. Then, almost imperceptibly, his mind emptied and he was caught in the moment, relishing the feel of the wind in his face.
A continued series of explosions down the panicked herd’s path guided them to the centre of the Loyalist troops, where they crushed people and horses under them. The elephants panicked, running amok and destroying the very army they were supposed to protect. With morbid fascination, Parad watched the devastation his plan had wrought, as an endless, terrified stream of beasts ran over men and horses alike.
His own unit now approached the field, cutting off the Loyalists’ escape. He slowed down for a moment, making sure to stay out of the herd’s path as it made its frantic way across the valley. From the distance, he thought he heard Gella’s laughter at the success of their mad strategy.
As soon as the herd had crossed, Tang’s men turned around to attack the confused army. The Loyalists retreated back towards the fortress, only to find Parad’s cavalry cutting them off. He had left a narrow corridor for anyone wishing to escape; a fleeing soldier was one less enemy to fight.
Parad had not felt this alive in ages. He lit up his energy sword—a family heirloom and one of only a handful in the battle—and ducked to avoid a lance. He cut through a throng of confused Loyalists gaping around in panic. Blood splatters soiled his padded armour. Thick smoke made his eyes water and burned his throat. Through his tears, he caught a glimpse of Tang in the distance, surrounded by three Armbands, and rushed to his aid. Screams filled the air, making his heart race with fear and excitement.
A hard knock on his shoulder, like hitting a wall, caught him off-guard. He almost fell off his horse. A rider had appeared out of nowhere to strike him with an energy sword, but the padding had absorbed most of the blow. He swore at his carelessness and stole a quick glance at his shoulder, where the sword had landed. He had been lucky; the enemy weapon’s power cell had faltered. Had the arc been lit, it would have sliced off his arm.
Whirling his horse around, Parad’s eyes widened at the sight of a blood-red padded uniform. That’s Crusoe himself! Parad pulled on the reins in shock. He had heard Crusoe described as a tall man, but this was almost a giant.
Crusoe fiddled with his energy sword. The arc along its edge lit up. A feeling of gratitude washed over Parad as he grasped his own energy sword; Crusoe’s sword would cut through a normal blade as if it were warm butter. Parad twirled his blade. The bright glow of the two swords melted into one blinding flash as they met. Crusoe battered him with blow after blow, while Parad did his best to parry and avoid the attacks. Since power cells were notoriously unreliable, he had no idea how long he could withstand the assault.
Time after time they twisted and spun their horses around, charging and withdrawing in rapid succession. Parad no longer saw or heard anything save the red-clad warrior in front of him, striking so quickly that he soon became a crimson blur wielding a blindingly bright light. Soon, Crusoe would overpower him.
For a second Parad considered fleeing. He ducked, the flaming sword whizzing past him, and he cursed himself for his momentary weakness. Even if he did outrun his opponent, few in the field carried energy weapons. Crusoe would be unstoppable. No, it fell on him to conquer this mountain of a man.
His thoughts had distracted him, and he yanked the reins a split-second too late to avoid the next charge. Crusoe’s beast plunged onto his, sending him to crash on the ground. His sword flew from his hands. It landed into a red puddle with a loud splash, its flame extinguished with a loud hiss. He fumbled for it in the blood-soaked mud. His trembling fingers grabbed the hilt as Crusoe lunged at him. Parad leaped out of the way and flicked the switch.
Nothing.
Parad let out a brief curse and flicked the switch again. And again. No flame appeared. His weapon was nothing but a particularly unwieldy sword.
His hand shook, but some quiet corner in his mind noticed with startling clarity that Crusoe’s position high on the horse made him leave his side exposed for a split second when attacking. He flicked the switch again.
Unexpectedly, the sword in Parad’s hand jumped to life. He faced his charging opponent and braced himself, waiting for the next thrust. As the flame in Crusoe’s hand struck, Parad pretended to lose his balance and fall backwards.
With a blood-curdling cry, Crusoe took the bait and pressed forward to finish his enemy. Parad swiftly threw his body sideways and hurled his sword in the air. It flew deep into the man’s armpit, until the hilt caught on Crusoe’s ribs and the bright light along the sword’s edge emerged through his shoulder. The man howled and whirled around violently. A curse escaped Parad’s lips as the sword faltered and died, still embedded in Crusoe’s body. His eyes darted around, looking desperately for any weapons and finding none. He was defenceless.
Crusoe grabbed the dead metal rooted in his body. Parad froze in fear; if the man attacked, he had no way to shield himself. The sword’s hilt protruded under Crusoe’s right armpit and the darkened, bloodied blade emerged from his shoulder; yet the man refused to die.
Parad wiped away the sweat stinging his eyes. “Just die already, will you?” he screamed.
Crusoe opened his mouth. A gargling sound came out. He slipped off his horse and staggered to the ground. As his horse neighed and galloped away, the Loyalist ruler dropped to his knees, swayed gently, and collapsed to the dirt.
Parad’s breath came heavy through his mouth as he crept towards his opponent. He knelt next to the dying man with no idea of what to do next. He had just defeated not only the man leading his opponents, but also the leader of the most significant threat his people had faced for three hundred years. His sense of hearing crept back, carrying the ebbing sounds of battle with it.
His gaze darted around at mangled bodies and crushed beasts. Moans and prayers hit his ears, along with curses and soft sobs. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air, burning his lungs. He coughed and whirled anxiously, taking notice of stained uniforms. A few nearby Loyalist
s threw up their arms in surrender. Some seemed to do so timidly; others with a mixture of resignation and apprehension; yet others with obvious relief.
Parad wiped blood from his face, noticing the many eyes staring at him. Everyone must have seen my fight with Crusoe. Watching their leader die, and caught between two armies, more and more Loyalists dropped their weapons to the ground and lifted their hands in the air. Comprehension crept up on him. Slowly at first, then with a momentum that caught his breath, it hit him. Parad stumbled and dropped to his knees, his whole body quaking. The battle was over.
So was the war.
They had won.
Chamber of Justice, the Capital
November 31, Styx
Styx looked up from her e-lib as Parad marched down the marble corridor in slow, measured steps. Lieutenants Gella and Tang followed him closely behind. They all held their heads straight, although their gazes darted every now and then at Styx’s trusted Guardians; flesh statues waiting in alcoves along the long room where she met with her subjects and passed judgment. Normally, simple guards would suffice. Not today, though.
She handed her clerk the e-lib, hiding an annoyed sneer at the sound of a jubilant crowd celebrating outside. The people loved the older General and his two young aides. The heroes who had freed them from a three-hundred-year-old threat; the champions who had ended the longest war in living memory. They cheered and toasted them everywhere. Her advisor spared her no details when describing how everyone’s face lit up upon hearing their names.
It was time to act. This was not the Democracies, where any idiot had a say on the direction the city should take. She, and she alone, was responsible for ensuring the Capital’s welfare. A responsibility that weighed heavily on her shoulders. Nothing else mattered but the good of the people. No step was too extreme to ensure their peace and prosperity.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 16