The Scarab Path sota-5

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Now the Scorpions were falling back. The Khanaphir pursued them a dozen yards before re-forming seamlessly, as though they had not lost a man. The Scorpions outpaced them in their retreat, then turned around ready for another charge. By now their numbers were greatly reduced, but they did not seem to care. Fighting spirit, Jakal had called it, and their blood was up. She seemed to think it made them more dangerous as a people, though Hrathen had kept silent and reflected on how an Imperial army would exploit such a weakness.

  The Scorpion vanguard tried another assault under the raining arrows of the Khanaphir archers. Hrathen could feel the restlessness of the main army reaching a fever pitch. Even as he had the thought, he heard Jakal say, 'We can't keep them back much longer. Nature shall take its course.'

  The second advance was a shambles. The Scorpions faltered before the strike, losing even more men to the archers and denying themselves the impetus of their charge. When they struck the Khanaphir line, they broke and ran almost at once, an utter rout. The Khanaphir followed them up, further this time, no doubt heartened by the predictability of their foes.

  There was a shrill whistle from Hrathen's right, blown by one of Angved's engineers. It told him that the Khanaphir host was now within crossbow range.

  'Over to you,' he said to Jakal. He then looked out for the Khanaphir cavalry, seeing the nearest detachment still far to his flank, waiting on a rise for their chance.

  And if it never comes? He ducked his head as Jakal sounded her horn again, the note cutting stridently through the shouts and yells and screams. The main host should now be separating into three blocks, opening up two avenues that led down towards the advancing Khanaphir. Most of that did not happen: it had proved too much to try and teach the Scorpions in the short time they had. Thankfully, Angved would be aiming high.

  A count of twenty, Hrathen thought. It was all the pause Angved would leave. Obligingly the Khanaphir forces had halted again, waiting for the next charge of the Many. This was how they had won their previous battles: short, unstoppable advances whilst the enemy wore themselves down against their interlocked shields.

  He put himself into the minds of the beasts, warning them, steadying them. There will be a great noise, he told them. It is not for you to worry about.

  The whole chariot quivered with their fear, even so, when a dozen leadshotters spoke in rapid succession. He looked back to see the great plumes of smoke from behind the Scorpion army, marking where the firepowder-charged engines had discharged their shot. For a moment both armies seemed in disarray, and then the missiles began to land. Angved had not used the solid balls that would soon crack the walls of Khanaphes: instead he had something purpose-made for this moment. Each shot would smash and shatter as it impacted, scything metal fragments into the tight-packed ranks of the surrounding enemy.

  Well over half the shots missed the Khanaphir army altogether, impacting behind or beside them in colossal clouds of dust, but two or three landed directly on their mark, crashing down amidst those shoulder-to-shoulder squares of armed men.

  This was part of any modern war, Hrathen knew: acceptable, unavoidable losses. Soldiers too spread out were inefficient, hard to command, ineffective against any solid enemy force. Only Ant-kinden possessed the almost supernatural discipline to change from close to open formation at will. It was part of any modern war, but the Khanaphir had never fought a modern war until now. Angved had made history: he was the first man to bombard the people of Khanaphes.

  Hrathen had half thought they would break then and there, but they were made of sterner stuff. They held together, reeling and milling, and all the time the leadshotters were reloading. Command was slow in coming: no mindlinks here for instant readiness. They stayed still, and Hrathen admired the restraint of his own crossbowmen in not playing their hand too early. The army of Khanaphes reordered its ranks, and then the leadshotters spoke again.

  His artillerists had been given a chance to correct their aim, and some had over-corrected. One shot struck within the Scorpions' own front line, and another, worse still, ploughed through thirty loose ranks of Nem warriors, exhausting itself before it ever reached the enemy. Hrathen felt the shock whip through his forces, knew that he must find a use for them soon or they would attack their own artillery.

  Two shells had missed the entire army again, proof of the practice the Scorpions still needed, but the rest were on their targets, eight separate explosions rocking the Khanaphir lines.

  And there's more where that came from, Hrathen thought. Work it out.

  He cast another look to his left and saw the Khanaphir cavalry mustering, falling into a phalanx.

  'Messenger!' he bellowed, and one of his Wasps dropped down beside him.

  'Send to Angved, have him ready his crossbowmen. The cavalry are readying for a charge.'

  It was the right thing to do, of course, assuming there were no more surprises. Just as the main army was about to do the 'right thing', on the same assumption.

  Whoever was commanding the Khanaphir centre had now realized that staying still was a death sentence. The bombardment, a mere friendly greeting by Imperial standards, had killed more of them than both of the Scorpion charges, and it did not take any great mind to see that such tricks would be of limited use once the armies converged.

  The Khanaphir army sounded the charge, and their ranks of locked shields thundered towards the disordered Scorpions with a great battle-cry. Their chariots began to rattle forward on either flank.

  Hrathen took a deep breath, waiting for the whistle. Angved took his own time over it, but then it sounded high and clear over the sounds of battle. Second whistle: crossbows loose.

  He was expecting a rabble of individual shots, but the crossbowmen had inherited a kind of pride from their teachers, and that paved the way for something more military. When they loosed, each unit was mostly together. The staggered crossbow discharge caught the Khanaphir in mid-charge. Their right flank managed to take the brunt on their shields, stumbling to a crawl but keeping their lines intact. The Khanaphir left, on the far side from Hrathen, fell apart instantly, men lanced through or speared in the leg, men falling over fallen comrades. That entire flank of the Khanaphir army was crashing into itself, utterly still, the uniform advance ruined.

  The crossbowmen would be drawing back their strings with all of their strength. The Khanaphir centre had slowed to keep pace with its comrades, the charge faltering. The crossbowmen had made, by their discipline, their own chance for a second shot.

  It struck, without the previous savage cohesion, now that they were getting excited, but it was enough. The Khanaphir right began pulling inwards, retreating. On the broken left it was the unshielded archers that took the worst of it, dropping in their scores. The left-flank chariots had mostly stopped, some wheeling in disarray, others stilled, their beasts brought down.

  Hrathen looked back at Jakal and was about to signal to her, but she had the horn to her lips already, sounding it loud and long.

  Third horn blast: charge. It was the end of tactics, for the most part, but tactics had played their part. Now the great host of the Many of Nem descended upon the halted Khanaphir line with all of its ferocious might, and the real killing began.

  From his station amongst the cavalry, Amnon felt abruptly hollow inside, on hearing that earth-shaking roar from behind the Scorpion lines. Something in him had cracked. His former certainty was leaking out.

  It was not immediately obvious to him what had happened, but something had struck within the infantry lines. He saw the dust, heard the distant cries. It was some device of the Empire, but he could not link cause and effect. It seemed like magic to him, that the enemy could simply punch ragged holes into his army.

  He hesitated, four score of riders about him trying to calm their high-strung mounts, which were baring their mandibles in terrified threat at the very sky, as though to challenge the echo.

  Then the sound came again, and he managed to connect it with the smoke of a momen
t before, the line of brief flares visible behind the Scorpion host.

  'Form me a wedge!' he shouted out, but he had to give the order three more times before his troop got their animals under control. The beetles were pattering about madly, gaping their jaws and flaring their wingcases in threat, trying to scare off the future. Their riders, lightly armoured men and women, with shields slung over their backs, struck the beasts with the butts of their lances or the reins of their Art until they were back under control. By that time, Amnon's officers had set the main army to moving forward. It was the right thing to do.

  'Charge with me!' he cried out. He could not remember what name Totho had given to the weapons but he recognized the description. 'They are exposed at the enemy's rear, these noisemakers. We will kill the men who operate them.'

  They were mostly behind him now. Penthet the locust bucked uncomfortably beneath him, folding and refolding his wings. He and Amnon had been through a lot, and the insect's simple mind trusted him.

  He put his spurs in and the locust leapt twenty feet forward, the banner of Khanaphes streaming out behind him. The beetle cavalry would come scuttling after at their top speed, long-legged over the uneven ground, catching him at the end of each jump and then being left behind again. He readied his first lance, letting it rest between Penthet's antennae as the world wheeled and plunged about him.

  Enemy cavalry was already moving to intercept him, but the armoured scorpions were sluggish compared to his own fleet warriors. Only the swiftest outriders of the Scorpion-kinden were in time to cause him any inconvenience. Amnon couched his lance and let Penthet choose his own path down, wings steering so as to bring the steel point thrusting through the chitin of a scorpion before the creature or its rider even realized he was upon them. He unslung his bow as a rabble of the Many's fleetest riders bore down on him. His own fastest follower caught the closest of them with a lance, skittering in from the side and hooking the Scorpion cavalryman off his mount, while the Beetle archer seated behind the lancer was busy loosing his shafts at more distant enemies. There was a chariot rattling down towards Amnon, two beasts yoked to a two-wheeled cart. The soldiers within were training some weapon upon him, but Penthet sprang obediently into the air and Amnon sliced an arrow back down at them, killing one of their animals and dragging the chariot to a stop. A moment later, he and the bulk of his riders were past the enemy cavalry. The last few of his wedge would meet them, he knew, peeling off to throw themselves at the enemy's stings in order to buy time.

  He spared a glance for the main army and saw that something was wrong. They were now locked in with the Scorpions, but were being forced back, the host of Scorpions surging to both sides of their formation.

  Before him he spotted the strung-out line of weapons, long black tubes that the Scorpions were swarming around in some arcane ritual. He goaded Penthet onward, knowing that the riders behind him would take up the pace.

  There were other Scorpions rushing to get between him and the weapons, but he knew a cavalry charge would break them. The Scorpions had no decent spear-wall to fend off riders, and their own cavalry was hopelessly outmanoeuvred.

  Penthet came down before them, and he realized his next leap would clear the mob of Scorpions entirely. He felt the locust's hind legs bunch with all the power of their colossal muscles, knowing that his charging followers would scatter and smash the Scorpions and join him on the other side of them.

  Even as he jumped, he saw the enemy crossbows let fly into the charging riders.

  He came down right behind them, within three yards of the hindmost Scorpions, and turned to see his cavalry. By that time, more than half of them were dead.

  Something tightened inside him. The ground the Scorpions faced was strewn with fallen men, with dying animals. Riding beetles, whose shells could shrug off javelins and axe-blades, had been pierced through with holes, the short, heavy bolts barely slowing for chitin or barding. They lay on their sides or on their backs, legs twitching and kicking in uncomprehending agony.

  By now, the survivors had struck the Scorpion line, which fragmented before them, the enemy simply running left and right. Though many of the crossbowmen fell to the lances of the riders, or under the feet of their mounts, there were still plenty left.

  'Onwards!' Amnon cried, although he heard his own voice sounding raw with grief. Penthet took him another great stride towards the enemy weapons, and his men followed without question. The crossbow shot began to fall on them from behind now, and from the left where the main Scorpion army was. The bolts zipped through the air like wasps. One bounded from Amnon's shield. Another skipped across Penthet's thorax right in front of him, leaving a shallow gouge, barely slowed.

  The Scorpions were fleeing from the nearest weapon but he was too quick for them. He came down in their midst, his lance impaling one, and then his sword lashing out to kill two more. A scattering of riders reached him, slaying the rest before they could escape. He felt Penthet prepare for the next leap.

  They had shifted the next weapon round, he saw. Some of the crew there were not Scorpions but Wasp-kinden, such as had so recently been the guests of Khanaphes. The gaping maw of the leadshotter was now facing him.

  Amnon gave out a wordless cry, feeling two crossbow bolts impact into Penthet's side. The locust kicked off from the ground, unevenly but high.

  The thunder spoke.

  It was not just that one, but many, the others dropping shot on to the rear edge of the Khanaphir forces. That one weapon filled Amnon's view, though: the flash of fire followed by the plume of smoke. The lead-shot ball struck into his cavalry just as it was forming, smashing three riders and their beasts smashed into bloody shards.

  The crossbows loosed again, and now there were just two riders behind him. The crew of the weapon ahead of him had scattered, and he did not have the numbers to hunt them down, or the strength to break the iron of the weapon itself.

  He came down again, his two survivors still with him. 'Rejoin the army!' he bellowed. 'Fly!'

  Penthet could fly, not strongly but enough. The beetles could manage a brief hop: a frantic, buzzing barrelling through the air. It would have to suffice.

  The locust launched itself into the air, wings spreading into furious motion right behind him, battering Amnon with their force. The beetles lifted more slowly, clawing for height. One faltered, the bolts finding it an easy target, piercing its underbelly in a dozen places and bringing it down. The other one took three bolts but stayed in the air, in a single strained burst of effort that took it down behind the Khanaphir lines. Amnon felt the shuddering impact as another quarrel took Penthet in the abdomen.

  Amnon's officers had already begun the retreat. With what discipline was left to them, the Khanaphir forces were falling back. In places it was already a rout, but the centre — the Royal Guard itself — was holding the Scorpions at bay, selling their own lives at a ruinous cost to the attackers.

  Behind them, on the approach to the river Jamail, there lay farms and tributary villages, herders' hovels, dozens of little homes that had trusted to Khanaphes's protection. The army retreated through them at the best pace it could, and the Scorpions, who might have harried them right up to the very walls of the city, fell away to seize on this immediate chance to loot.

  So it was that the remnants of the army of Khanaphes regained its city. Half of the men and women who had marched out that morning never came home.

  Jakal came to him at last, that same night, after the host of Nem had made its camp amongst the burned-out farmhouses, the ruined fields. When the last prisoners had finally been tired of and slain or packed off for slaves, when the bloodlust of the battle had simmered into an anticipation of the morrow, she came to him, at last, naked save for a belt where a long dagger was sheathed.

  In the gloom of his tent, by two guttering oil lamps, he could see her well enough. The bluish light tinted her pale skin with an undersea glow. She was lean and muscled, her breasts small, little of the feminine about her. Hra
then was more used to slave women, Wasps or other kinden of the Empire. Jakal's jaw jutted with narrow fangs, her hands bore claws curving over thumb and forefinger.

  Gazing on her, he felt such a surge of arousal as he had never known. She was the Warlord of the Many of Nem, on whose word the horde of Scorpion-kinden fought and died. She had marked him out from the start: a constant teasing, backed with steel, that had found all the gaps in his Rekef facade. Her eyes still glinted with amusement at the victories she had won in her own personal campaign.

  'Do you not trust me, yet?' he asked, looking at the dagger. She knelt beside him, pressed one hand to his broad and hairless chest, pushing him back on to his bedroll.

  'I will never trust you, Of-the-Empire,' she replied, 'but this is our way. We are a fierce people, after all, and couplings turn into killings sometimes. Claws, daggers … perhaps I should take one of your crossbows into bed with me, to mark today's conquest.'

  He had reached for his own sword-belt, but she pounced on his arm, pinning his wrist with her claws, gripping hard enough to draw blood.

  'What need have you of steel?' she demanded. 'I know you are never unarmed, Of-the-Empire, for your Art lives in your hands — the Art of both your kin.' She drew his hand to her mouth, biting at it gently, the rank of her fangs barely denting the skin. He felt her tongue lick his palm, as though exploring where his Art came from. He could feel his palms warm with the sheer excitement of it. She released his hand and laughed at him delightedly.

  She is ready to kill me, he thought, but that was no revelation. She was equally ready to kill him at any time, for any reason. It was how they lived, the Scorpion-kinden, and it meant he belonged.

  She was upon him in an instant and they wrestled briefly. He might have been the stronger by some small margin, but she fought with more fire — the Warlord of the Nem demanding nothing less than a complete surrender, pinning him down beneath her and clasping him between her claws.