by Stephen Hunt
Anna banked south, taking them close to the sea fort. Heavy fortress walls running up a slope behind the granite breakwater protecting Redwater Sound. They were trying to raise barrage balloons from towers along the crenellated walkways but hadn’t received any warning of the attack. Complacent. That’s what happens when one side has almost absolute control of the air. You come to believe that everything in the sky has to be friendly. Rodal had never mounted anything like this. And Weyland had never seen any attacks on this scale. Gunnery crews reached the wall cannons fixed inside armoured casemates, ramming shells inside the muzzles, others charging them with powder while their compatriots raised the big guns’ elevation. The guns had hardly spoken before they were answered by dark plunging silhouettes, a squadron of skyguard pilots piercing through the fog cloud and dive-bombing the sea fort’s roof. Jacob had ordered the largest bombs to be preserved for this task. Almost things of beauty. Engravings of Vandian military triumphs on the brass shell-casings, warheads moulded with the exaggerated visages of the Imperium’s most famous emperors and generals. The same hideous steel faces that slammed into the sea fort’s curtain wall, barracks and barbican, sending them rising into the fog on spouts of fire as fierce shockwaves rippled out, the closest buildings in the town crumpling in the blast.
Anna’s flying wing overflew Redwater proper, moss-covered slate rooftops whisking past. Right in the centre of the walled city was a squat thick-walled building with the narrow metal triangle of a radio tower rising from its centre.
‘Leave the Radio Guild’s hold intact,’ called Jacob. I need them to call for help. Long and loud.
Anna raised her flying goggles and wiped her eyes. ‘This isn’t a battle, it’s a bloody slaughter. Against one of our own towns.’
‘No, this was never going to be a battle.’ It’s just prodding the beast.
Out by the river mouth, the line of flying boats moored on the shoreline had been transformed into a blazing conflagration by skyguard bombs. A handful of flying boats were taxiing along the river, trying to build up speed to escape, but even with multiple propellers and powerful engines, the fully laden shuttles were no match for the tiny Rodalian flying wings. Planes dived on them, wing guns chattering, and Jacob watched the store of fuel barrels ignite on one craft, its floats blown spinning across the water as its wooden body disintegrated.
Anna tapped the fuel gauge on her instrument panel. ‘We either need to head home now or pray the mountain wind’s blowing in a good direction for gliding the last sixty miles.’
‘I’m out of the praying business,’ said Jacob. ‘Push above the fog for a look-see.’
The single engine mounted behind them roared throatily as Anna angled the flying wing up again, a quick moist slap of cool air as they breached the fog-bank, and then the fog was below them like a long snowfield, crimson in places where flames below reflected off the thinnest layers. Clear sky and an unimpeded view of dark silhouettes emerging from the sun. They could have been fighters the same size as a Rodalian flying wing, but only if you confused distance and scale. Carriers; still miles away. Every skel slaver on this side of Pellas and a few of the larger free companies and air pirates. Jacob carefully counted the formation using his folding brass telescope. ‘There they are. Twelve in total. Nine skel raiders, two freebooters and a mercenary carrier.’
‘How the hell can you tell that at this distance?’ asked Anna.
‘Count them when they fly nearer if you like.’
‘They’re climbing for height,’ said Anna. ‘Looking for a killing edge when they launch their squadrons.’
Jacob consulted his watch. Cutting it fine, but just enough time left. ‘Back below the fog. Show our pilots the signal smoke.’
‘Green smoke, aye,’ said Anna. ‘And exactly what’s the smoke signalling, General sir?’
‘I’d say it’s time to flee from that angry bear we’ve roused.’
‘Well, you’ve presented Bad Marcus with a hell of a butcher’s bill,’ said Anna. ‘Set the waves on fire and left a thousand dead Weylanders bobbing in our waters. Are we going to live long enough to call this dirty massacre a victory?’
‘Wouldn’t be a victory if we didn’t. Set your compass for the airfields at Salasang.’
Anna’s plane plunged below the fog cover, spewing green smoke from canisters under her fuselage. They passed a flickering sea of fire below, town and harbour, barques and flying boats, all aflame and filling the sky with dirty black smoke, hardly anything moving worth being considered a target of opportunity. The skyguard pilots had been anticipating Jacob’s signal, and seeing it painting the roof of fog, rapidly peeled off. Anna’s flying wing soon dragged an aerial armada behind her thin contrail. Same number of kites we arrived with, best I can tell. The skyguard’s casualties were yet to be tallied. Soon enough.
‘Is Salasang able to receive this number of flying wings?’ asked Anna.
‘Eastern Rodal has stayed clear of the war,’ said Jacob. ‘They’re still fresh. It’s the capital that Vandia and Bad Marcus are trying to put under siege.’
‘Never been to Salasang. Hope their ramparts have enough cannons to fight off a flock of angry carriers.’
The wind carried the massed skyguard force north-east, past snowtopped mountains all too familiar to Jacob. I wandered among these valleys and peaks once, with Brother Frael. Carrying out works of quiet charity in the hope of polishing the name of the saints among the Rodalians. A lifetime away, now. Perhaps two.
Jacob gazed behind him, watching the enemy until his neck began to ache. The massive carriers were still riding high and fast, being dragged along by the winds of the upper atmosphere. Gaining on the fleeing skyguard force with every minute that passed. Roasting that far up, the raw sunlight turning portholes into bright white mirrors, wooden propellers gleaming as though they were polished sabre steel. ‘They haven’t launched their fighter wings yet.’
‘They won’t,’ growled Anna. ‘Their fighters are hitching a ride, fuel-free, on those big momma birds. They’re fools if they don’t know we’ll be sucking on fumes soon enough.’
‘Go lower,’ said Jacob. ‘Down into the valleys.’
‘I can buzz the damn alpine forest clinging to those mountains and dodge trees for you,’ said Anna, ‘but the enemy carriers will maintain line of sight on us from their position. We need to climb to the same altitude as those wooden whales if we’re to stand a chance of escaping. Shed gravity and drag.’
‘Lower,’ Jacob insisted. She reluctantly obeyed.
‘Saints’ teeth,’ said Anna, fighting her stick, ‘but there’s a hellish updraught rising off this valley. Staying this low I’m burning more fuel than I set on fire back at Redwater.’
‘Just keep flying north-east.’
‘Scraping treetops, we’re never going to shake off the pursuit this way,’ warned Anna. ‘We need to climb for height, run light and find a strong trade wind to push us along. These are skyguards we’re flying with. They should be able to whistle up well-intentioned wind spirits faster than a crew of evil skels, mercenaries and air pirates.’
‘I’ll take it under advisement. Now just keep going,’ Jacob repeated. He gazed at the valley floor fleeting past below, catching sight of the Great Northern Road winding through a series of streams flowing off the heights, a series of low arched bridges and shallow fords bubbling with trout. I lived a life here, once. It wouldn’t be so bad to die here.
‘You may be the notorious Burn warlord who never lost a battle, but hell if you know anything worth spit about skyguard tactics,’ swore Anna. ‘We can’t canyon-run or mountain-twist our way out of this mess. The skel squadrons have the jump on us: they’re diving out of the sun with height and speed on their side. Look at those carriers – they reckon they’ve won! They’re drifting down on top of us, too. Do you know how many ball-turrets and fuselage guns one of those flying cities mount? They’re going to rip us to pieces and we don’t carry nearly enough fuel to outrun them. Try to dogfight
and we’ll be dropping out of the sky with empty tanks while their kites are merrily topping up inside their carriers.’
Jacob stared up at the slowly descending carriers, each town-sized aircraft seemingly shielded behind hundreds of blurred rotors, dozens of squadrons launching from hangars under each massive wing. Fast single-prop fighter aircraft. Slavers. The same killers who had murdered Mary Carnehan and left half a town full of corpses for Jacob to bury at Northhaven, abducting the youngest survivors as human chattel. Looking to finish the job, now.
Duncan Landor found it hard to give credit to how much Northhaven had changed since the arrival of the southern army and its allies. Every time he returned from the front line in Rodal his town looked less like home. Where once there had been fields of grain and patchwork farmland stretching to the horizon – most of it owned by the House of Landor – now there were massive military camps, line after line of white tents, royalist army regiments marching, drilling, lined up and hammering at paper targets. He could tell from the soldiers’ young faces that they badly needed the practice. This time last year many of these untested men would have been standing behind counters in shops, working their family’s farm, or toiling in some clacking, smoke-filled mill for a southern aristocrat. Now they filled freshly dyed blue uniforms while being yelled at by slightly older soldiers, what passed for veterans themselves mobilized from territorial guard units and local militias. Out by the river, the airfield had been extended into acres of runways and hangars filled with squadrons of Weyland’s skyguard, their pilots and aircrews barely old enough to shave. The skyguard flats extended right up to the railhead now, itself a hive of activity as arriving trains piled crate-mountains of supplies shipped up from the Deep South. Only the Vandian barracks appeared slightly more permanent. The Imperium’s legionaries had used machines to fell half the woodland beyond the town, riding tracked diggers that moved massive quantities of soil, constructing sprawling log forts and earthworks with a speed that must have astonished every local labourer yet to be drafted.
Duncan stopped for a second, Paetro by his side, to gaze at the low rolling hills to the east, the stumps of thousands of sawn treetrunks dotting the bare slopes like unshaven chin bristle. I fought a duel against Carter up there in Rake’s Meadow. And today I’m to fight another one, courtesy of my conniving sister. Unlike Duncan’s previous fight, this wouldn’t be any illicit affair settled in the wilderness. A fencing square had been set aside inside the Army of the Boles’ camp for the two participants. There would be judges and doctors on hand and no doubt every officer with enough pull in the southern army to secure a place watching.
‘You know, lad,’ said Paetro, ‘back in the empire a duel such as this would be displayed on the kino screens for everyone’s amusement.’
‘Well, at least having my brother-in-law trying to fillet me will make a change from Prince Gyal dispatching me to lead every suicidal charge mounted.’
‘It’s only suicide if you die.’
‘What is it called if you don’t?’ asked Duncan.
‘Battle experience.’
His friend had a dark turn of humour. ‘A court-sanctioned duel,’ continued Duncan. ‘It wasn’t so long ago that you’d be arrested by the constables in Northhaven for clashing steels and wounding a man in a matter of honour.’
‘Ah, you have a strange system out here in the back of beyond. The threat of a just duel helps keep the rest of the law honest. You’re a lot less likely to cheat a citizen if you know they might come after you with a sabre or dagger. Besides, people need blood. It’s in their nature.’
Their blood I don’t need. Not least this spiteful foolishness contrived by Willow. Duncan saw his father approaching in an artillery officer’s uniform. It looked as if it had been cleaned and pressed especially for the occasion. Benner Landor nodded stiffly to Paetro before addressing Duncan. ‘This is an evil business, son.’
‘It appears Willow has everyone dancing to her tune again,’ noted Duncan, bitterly.
‘If she wasn’t carrying William’s child, I’d have disowned her for this,’ said Benner. ‘And just as soon as Willow has given birth, she will be disowned. My grandson is the last thing she has to offer the Landors. After that, I have no daughter worthy of the name. Running away from her husband, taking up with the rebels and supporting the pretender, carrying on with that damned Carnehan boy as a common adulteress. And now this! Manipulating her trial. Refusing to face the consequences of her dark deeds. Pitting brother against husband out of spleen and malice. This is the only time in my life I am glad that Lorenn isn’t here. To see what became of Willow. To see just what her daughter has grown into.’
She grew into what you made her, Father, thought Duncan, resigned to the fight now. Your greed and overbearing stupidity. The futility of this civil war only finished the process the mighty House of Landor started.
‘Leyla has come to see you?’ asked Benner. ‘Concerning her arrangement for thwarting Willow’s wicked scheme?’
‘She has,’ said Duncan. Arrangement. That’s a gentle word for it. And if you knew the energetic fun Leyla had in convincing me, I reckon you would be in the market for another ridiculously young bride to ignore while you’re locked away counting your wealth.
‘Then it is settled. It sits badly with me that a Landor should fight less than his best, but in this matter it seems to be a choice between two evils, and so we must choose the lesser one.’
Easy to say when it’s not you throwing the fight, Father. ‘You can rest easy. I won’t let Willow off the hook.’
Benner Landor nodded curtly and set off towards the field of honour.
That’s all I need. Him watching this too. I just hope he keeps his mouth shut and can stop himself shouting advice. Duncan halted, staring at the rank of soldiers his father had passed through. ‘It can’t be!’
‘What is it?’ asked Paetro.
‘I thought I saw Nocks over there. Glaring towards my father.’
Paetro’s gaze drilled across the soldiers. ‘Your father’s manservant? That treacherous dog your sister seduced into trying to murder you inside Midsburg?’
‘The same.’ Duncan stared at the drilling soldiers, but there was no sign of the odious little creature among the troops. Duncan walked across to the tents and gazed around, row after row of them stretching to the end of the camp, soldiers seated by camp fires, cleaning rifles, sharpening bayonets and brushing down their horses. No sign of Nocks, though. Am I so nervous I am imagining things now?
Paetro grimaced. ‘If Nocks is still under your sister’s spell, he’s probably here to make mischief at the duel. To try to free Willow if things go badly for her.’
‘Oh, they’ll go badly for Willow.’ I’ll see to that.
‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled for that turncoat,’ said Paetro, patting his pistol holster. ‘You just watch out for yourself, Duncan of Weyland.’
I can hear the disapproval in your voice. ‘It’s the only way,’ said Duncan. ‘If I am put out of the fight, then the trial’s verdict will go against Willow. How could I win the duel and let my sister walk free, laughing at me?’
‘As crimes go, fixing the outcome of a duel is as foul as it gets inside Vandia. And being put out of a fight is most often fatal.’
‘Yes, but as you pointed out, we’re not in Vandia and us locals are a strange bunch.’
‘Just stay strange and alive, lad. To hell with these schemes and plots. All an honest soldier ever needed is an honest fight.’
‘There can’t be much more fighting left,’ said Duncan. ‘The war’s over in Weyland and the tide’s turned in Rodal. We have superior numbers and weapons. Veteran legionaries and Marcus’ regiments against yak herders with antique rifles. Another mile of Rodal falls every day. The time is coming when the pretender will be killed or captured. I wouldn’t be surprised if what’s left of the rebellion retreats from Rodal as easily as it abandoned Weyland. Flees for one of the neutral countries like Hellin or Tresterer.’
Duncan knew his friend didn’t really give a fig about finishing King Marcus’ war up in the mountains. Paetro cared even less about salvaging Prince Gyal’s reputation. Victory to Paetro looked a lot like a grave filled with Jacob Carnehan’s corpse. And what will victory look like for me, if that jealous devil Gyal doesn’t manage to march me in front of a bullet before war’s end? Exiled to Weyland and kept a million miles apart from Helrena? A long, dangerous trip out to the steppes to bring Cassandra to Hawkland Park. And then what? Watching Leyla raise my nephew while my father plays at being the doting parent. Good old Duncan back to being a skivvy for the House of Landor, jumping to his father’s every command. Receiving reports of Gyal enjoying the imperial throne with Helrena sitting loyally by his side. How will that feel like victory? Even when I win, I fail. And first the humiliation of having to lose a duel to win it.
Duncan and Paetro reached the duelling square. A parade field had been roped off, an empty flagpole in the corner. There were seats for the judges, lawyers, defendant and what looked like half the general staff of the Army of the Boles. Others milled behind the ropes. The crowd wasn’t limited to blue-uniformed soldiers from the southern regiments. Duncan noted skels and a ragtag collection of mercenaries among their numbers. It was customary for the challenged party to have choice of weapons, but as both parties were fighting today under the ancient laws of trial by combat, the court had made the selection. Duncan was glad they had selected sabres over pistols. Far easier to fix a fight with steels instead of bullets.