Dangerous Offspring

by Steph Swainston

  I searched in vain for Frost. I looked among the east wing that she would have to pass through. It was a wide stream of men in full retreat. If Frost was heading the other way, her small group would be battling against the current and I’d see the flow of men dividing round them like water cleaving around a rock. But they seemed in good order with no stragglers–Hayl’s cavalry was carefully screening the withdrawal. From the lack of agitation in their ranks they seemed to be still ignorant of the larvae.

  I climbed, widening my search. The reserve had formed into a solid shield wall with archers in tight-packed shooting positions behind them. Lightning’s orders reached slow actualisation in the movements of tens of thousands on the field. The archers resumed shooting and arrow volleys sailed by below me, rippling the air. Already the rear echelons were beginning to form into columns, ready to pull out following the east wing. The real battleground was in front of the shield wall. But I didn’t have time to look–I had to find Frost and, even in her recently disturbed state she wouldn’t have been stupid enough to go that way, surely?

  I circled again, and cast my gaze towards the periphery. A motion caught my attention, so fast I thought it had to be Insects. I angled towards it, and saw it was the orange Riverworks banner accompanying Frost. Her horsemen were out on the east flank, far beyond the retreating troops and moving at a full gallop, something I wasn’t expecting in the mud soup. I dived towards them and saw they were heading rapidly towards the river bank, following a narrow supply road of quarry chippings. It was a causeway over the sodden ground, built at the same time as the plunge basin. Frost knew the valley like the back of her hand and was taking a quick detour around the chaos. I scanned the route ahead. Near the diminished river the track met the road, wide enough for wagons, that climbed the ramp to the dam and formed the walkway on top.

  I shed height quickly and checked for larvae. Along the entire length of the lake margins they were crawling up the shallow slope, long bodies twisting from side to side. Their claws pushed trails in the gravel. Some turned on each other, and on the carcasses of Insects littering the lakeside.

  Scores were emerging onto the dam’s face where the lake lapped up against it. In ragged lines they climbed its nearly sheer wall, finding purchase where it would be too steep for an adult Insect. Ripples broke over them, but they hung off its cobbles, moving up with mindless persistence; six legs and hooked feet scrabbling slowly.

  Nearly all headed directly to the carnage before them; downstream of the dam the shore was reasonably clear. The adult Insects were likewise occupied. Frost would only have to worry about stragglers as long as the shambles in front of her continued to offer an easy supply of food.

  I bit my lip, realising I was thinking of Tornado’s and Wrenn’s battalions only as bait to draw Insects away from Frost. Guiltily, I decided to take a closer look.

  Tornado’s men had advanced barely a few hundred metres after I’d left them before becoming trapped. There was no end to the nymphs emerging from the lake. The infantry divisions were concentrating on chopping as many as possible, but they were already an island cut off and disappearing under a chitin tide. They had formed into isolated schiltroms, standing in circles of shields shoulder-to-shoulder, presenting their weapons in all directions. Larvae were chewing through shields, running up them and over the heads of men so I saw waggling larvae crossing the circles. Two larvae replaced every one dispatched. The circles were visibly shrinking; the air was heavy with screams. I picked out Wrenn, a Wrought sword in each hand, slashing and cutting the nymphs to shreds but there were too many. It was like trying to sever snowflakes in a blizzard.

  The Queen’s lancers were whipping their mounts through the swarm. Each rider stopped only to pull a desperate foot soldier up behind him before turning and spurring back. They stabbed with their lances but the best weapons they had were their horses’ iron-shod hooves. The chargers’ long barding frustrated larvae trying to climb it but they could crawl under and they shot their jaws into the horses’ pasterns. Casualties were beginning to tell. Some mounts threw their riders in terror. I never saw any get up again.

  I put the terrible sight behind me and turned back towards Frost. My course took me over where Lourie’s soldiers had fallen. I was shocked to find myself staring at what looked like an ancient battlefield: skulls grinned under pot helmets, bones shone through the gaps in battered armour. Every last scrap of flesh had been consumed. The bone-mounds were covered in gnarled, motionless larvae sitting with heads looking up and long tails pressed to the ground. Their thin carapaces were translucent. Some were missing legs or heads. The back of every thorax was cracked and open.

  Shit. They weren’t dead larvae, they were empty shells. They were growing, shedding their carapaces within only a few hours of emerging. Five moults, the Vermiform had said. Surely all the moults couldn’t take the same length of time? At this rate, by the end of the week we would be up against a swarm of Insects greater than any we had ever seen.

  I found Frost leading her group, galloping flat-out up the curving road. Gaps appeared as the stronger mounts pulled away. She lashed her horse mercilessly, obsessed with reaching the dam. The horses were dripping sweat and wide-eyed with terror at the smell of Insects.

  I waved. ‘Come on! The way’s clear if you’re fast!’

  They pounded on, only a couple of minutes from the dam. But as they drew closer, nearby larvae began to converge on them.

  ‘Look out!’

  Frost ignored my warning and carried straight onto the dam’s crest, pushing her horse through the larvae as if they weren’t there. The rest followed her. I could see larvae hanging on horses’ legs by their jaws, working their way up the sides of the screaming animals. The riders flailed at them with swords, maces, gauntleted fists.

  I saw the trailing horse eaten as she staggered; larvae swarmed up her legs and took her apart, stripped the skin from her side in great swathes until her guts fell out. Here and there, they laid her bare to the bone in seconds. She died squealing, trying to free her hooves from the close-packed spiny nymphs. The rider, flailing at the beasts working through his armour, threw himself over the parapet and plummeted to his death rather than being eaten alive.

  With a terminal burst of speed, Frost reached her destination: the winch tower. She leapt off her horse, just short of the portcullis, shot the bolts of the iron maintenance door and disappeared inside the tower itself. The majority of her company were following. Abandoning their horses to occupy the larvae, they sprinted to safety, finally swinging the door shut behind them when it was clear there would be no more survivors. A minute later, the Riverworks Company banner jerked up the flag pole and unfurled in the breeze.

  CHAPTER 23

  I focused on the banner, soared round and set down on the roof of the winch tower. I slipped to the parapet, between its beacon and enormous warning bell. I looked around; the timber fence along the walkway had completely disappeared. Insects had chewed the stakes down to pulpy stumps.

  I looked down the faces of the winch tower. Both its portcullises were down, blocking the walkway on both sides. Both tracks were covered with larvae; they clustered around the grating trying to get through, but it was thick metal mesh and the gaps were too small. Adult Insects on the side nearest the Paperlands were chewing the bars fruitlessly.

  A rhythmic clanging echoed from inside the tower. I listened carefully; it was heavy and sharp, metal against stone, and muffled as if coming from a distance, which was strange because it was directly below me.

  I shimmied over the parapet and kicked a louvre through. I swung one leg inside, ducked my head under the top lintel and sat straddling the ledge, hunched half in, half out of the tower. I looked down.

  The tower had no floors–it was one great, hollow dark space filled with machinery. Some candle lights flickered far below me on the ground. The scale of the crowded shafts and cogs interlaced with each other completely took my breath away.

  I soon distinguished t
he mechanisms. On the walls below my window and opposite were fixed those needed to work the two portcullises–spindles wound with the last couple of loops of rope, and greased metal runners. The larvae’s short, whisker-like antennae poked between the bars of both gates and their jaws flashed out, tearing at the air.

  The mechanism to raise the dam gate was even more impressive. Only Frost’s dedication could have designed it, and only the effort it took to have drawn it together could have made her love it as much as she did. The shafts were painted black, but their naked steel working surfaces shone with oil. The inside of the tower looked like that of a windmill in which all the wheels and beams and pegs had turned to metal.

  The square floor was paved and on either side were circular, stone-rimmed holes from which thick cables ran, like ship’s ropes. They were tarred and very taut. They led up to a horizontal brass roller and were wrapped around it at both ends. It looked like the spindle used to raise water from a well, but on a massive scale. The roller was braced with girders attaching it to all four walls, secure at head height. Its vertical wheel meshed with a complicated system of gears onto a horizontal capstan carrying a chain. Lots of tackle to harness horses lay tangled, attached to the free end of the chain.

  Frost was down there, dwarfed by the machinery. I could see her rounded shoulders and bandanna; she had taken her helmet off. I shouted down but she couldn’t hear me. She was bent double, peering into a square hole in the floor. Its trapdoor was open and it was big enough for one man to fit down at a time. The clanking resounded from deep underground.

  Several soldiers were distributing gear piled by the walls. A big man beside Frost held a rope around his waist with both hands. The end disappeared into the shaft, and he was lowering it.

  I climbed down the rough wall and ran to her. ‘Frost?’

  ‘Jant!’ She stood upright and stretched, her hands in the small of her back. Her face was streaked with dirt and her brigandine jacket hung open. She had stuffed her brown velvet rabbit under its fastening flap and its head nodded comically at her bosom.

  ‘Jant, we lost our horses. We couldn’t bring them in. We had to leave them outside and the Insect young just ripped them apart.’

  ‘I saw it,’ I said.

  ‘We needed horses to raise the gate and open the dam. Now we can’t.’ Without looking she slapped her hand onto the weighty rope. ‘See?’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yes. Shit. But I think I’ve figured a solution.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She pointed down the maintenance shaft. A line of brackets bolted to the wall formed a ladder leading into the depths. A murky flicker of lamplight came and went down there.

  ‘Climb down and I’ll show you.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Come on. There are ten men crammed in the gate chamber but you can hang on the ladder.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t have time. I have to get back to the Emperor and tell him what you’re doing.’

  The rope around the soldier’s waist tugged twice, pulling his hand, and he began hauling something up. Frost said, ‘Now we’ve made a start, I can rig a block-and-tackle to make raising the spoil easier. This is your last load doing it the hard way.’

  ‘As you say.’ He grinned at her. He seemed in good spirits.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked again.

  She stamped her steel-toed boot on the paving stone. ‘If you went down into the chamber, you’d see the top of the gate emerging from the floor, with the ropes attached to it. Millions of tonnes of water are pressing on the gate, keeping it shut. So we are digging down on either side of it.

  ‘We are going to provide a new passage for the water over the top of the gate, then down into the original outlet pipe. Of course we’re digging on the downstream side first to open up the passage to the face of the dam. Then I’ll ask them to excavate the other side. Water will burst up, fill the chamber and drain away down the downstream side, out through the face of the dam, like it’s supposed to. We will drain the lake, lads! You’ll be heroes!’

  The men broke out in optimistic smiles.

  I said, ‘Really? Won’t the water gush back up the shaft?’

  Frost’s lips set thin. ‘No.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Sh!’ she snapped. ‘I’ll put a lid on it, or something.’ She took my sleeve and turned me away from the toiling fyrdsmen. ‘Not in front of them. Don’t ask any questions, just spread the news as to what I’m doing.’

  I said, ‘The downstream face is covered with larvae too. I expect some will have crawled up the passage.’

  She stared at me, then nodded. ‘Oh–when we break through? Yes, some might crawl into the chamber but we have our pickaxes. And the water will flush the rest out. I left a few stores here but we don’t have many spades. Fly thyself to the town and bring us more supplies.’

  ‘There’s a limit to the weight I can carry.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Bring what thou canst, thou wilt have to make a few trips. I want water, clean fresh water–’ she gestured in the direction of the lake ‘–because my men can’t drink that muck and this is thirsty work. They’re afforst from the ride, and forspent already.’

  ‘Frost, the first law of communication is to speak the same language as the person you’re speaking to.’

  ‘Sorry. You know what I bloody mean. Bring some more lanterns, another couple of spades because we don’t have enough to go around, and some food.’ She dithered. ‘Oh, and can you bring me some coffee too?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I can make it on the stove. It’s going to be a long night and I think I’m going to need it. We’ll keep digging until we make the breakthrough. The men have to remove all the cladding from the floor of the chamber with muscle power alone; there’s no way we can use acid down there.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’re mining out the core of your own dam?’

  ‘No. I’m just making two little holes, one either side of the gate.’

  ‘But whoever’s trapped in the chamber will–’

  ‘Will be able to climb to safety up the brackets,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, do you have a pen and paper? I need to write a message to the Emperor. Go and fetch the water bottles, and when you return I’ll have it ready for him.’

  I nodded to her, then quickly scaled the tower wall, slipped through the window and felt the pull as my wings took my weight. I flew back to Slake Cross.

  The town was a collage of hideous sights. It was incredibly crowded; people were still coming in from the battlefield but they were also drawing back behind the town’s walls out of the canvas city. We had no chance of holding the palisade and camp against the approaching larvae. They could climb, and they could swim, too, so the moat was useless. The tower tops bristled with soldiers ready to repulse them.

  I ran towards the centre square and the water pumps, passing stretcher-bearers carrying horrifically injured men. They left trails of blood through the streets already slippery with mud and horse dung. Exhausted soldiers crowded the staircases and corners, trying to summon the last reserves of energy. Some were chewing handfuls of hazelnuts, their iron rations. The walking injured leant against walls waiting for their friends to bring them pannikins of stew. Soldiers bare to the waist were queuing endlessly outside the shower block. Its doors were wide–men too tired to undress were standing clothed under the flow of water.

  More queues of thousands: up to the enormous cooking pots on a table under an awning. Under the Cook’s cornucopia banner, his assistants were doling out tremendous quantities of bean stew to whoever was well enough to take it. Soldiers were waiting in line holding their bowls.

  As I passed them, Tre Cloud darted out. ‘The Swordsman’s lost his leg!’ he cried. ‘Featherback lancers just carried him in.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘I’d say. He’s bawling blue filth.’

  I set off sprinting to the hospital. I could hear the screaming from a street aw
ay. I skirted round wounded men laid side by side on stretchers in the street against its wall, and entered onto a floor slick with red. Gore was spattered up the walls to above head height. Doctors were concentrating on their immediate patients and yelling for assistance, dressings, fresh water. Nurses carrying pitchers or bandage rolls shouldered past each other, dashing through the maze of beds.

  All around me men were lying, moaning, crying. One reached out and grabbed my belt. I looked down at him, and as I did so, he died.

  I slipped on blood, distracted by the tremendous variety of injuries. There were lots of empty eye sockets, or men with bandages over their eyes, because larvae had pulled their eyes out. There were plenty of men with cloth wrapped around bloody stumps; adult Insects had lopped off arms and legs. There were wounds to the throat, to the groin, to joints that were less protected by plate. Along the walls slumped hundreds of men with extreme exhaustion and dehydration–every one being given litres and litres of salty water. One porter with a mop was ineffectually stirring the pools of glutinous blood on the flagstones. It reflected the camp beds along the wall.

  Lying in a corner there was a man whose face had been chewed down to the bone on his forehead and cheeks–I could see into his mouth. And in another corner–something so terrible I quickly blotted it from memory.

  I saw Wrenn–lying by the wall, on a stretcher bed extending towards the middle of the room. Three lancers in plate were holding him down, one on his either shoulder and one on his leg. His other leg was nothing but a bleeding stump, bitten off below the knee. He was kicking it in the air and drops of blood were spattering on the soldiers. He was yelling, his mouth a black oval, his cheeks stretched and eyes slitted. Where his shin should be, I saw the white ends of neatly severed bone.

  They had stripped him down to his padded gambeson but he still had armour on his uninjured leg. He was covered in many smaller excruciating wounds, bleeding heavily through tears in the jacket. Most of them were deep punctures, where larvae’s fangs had slid in like curved smooth thorns, but they were nothing compared to what had happened to his leg.