The svolochi were on the other side of the defensive line. Col could hear them more than he could see them – their tremendous victory song like a booming peal of thunder.
‘The guards don’t know their Tsar’s given up the fight,’ said Riff.
‘How do we tell them?’ asked Col.
They reached the same answer in the same moment. ‘Unya can.’
But Unya wasn’t with them. They looked around and realised that she’d trotted off on her own. She was standing against the barrier, craning over the top. No doubt she wanted to see where the tyrants had fallen to their deaths.
‘Unya! Unya! Unya!’
She spun around. They expected to see an expression of elation on her face, but instead they saw shock and dismay.
She let out a sound like a strangled squawk.
An incredible scene dawned before their eyes as they looked out over the barrier. Thousands of Imperialist troops were drawn up in columns and squares on the ground below. It was a vast battlefield, closed off between Liberator on one side and the Romanov on the other, between the Marseillaise at one end and the Austrian and Turkish juggernauts at the other. Troops from the different juggernauts wore uniforms in different colours, red, grey, green and blue. The battle was already under way.
‘And we thought we were winning,’ Riff muttered.
‘So much for conquering the Romanov,’ said Col.
‘No wonder there were so few Russians on board.’
‘Just the old ones left behind.’
Liberator was like a castle under siege. Filthies and convicts fired rifles from scoops that had been lowered halfway to the ground to serve as gun-posts. Others fired from portholes in the juggernaut’s side. Answering fire came from snipers stationed above in the tethered balloons of the Marseillaise.
The rest of the team joined Col, Riff and Unya at the barrier. Jarvey and Cree gasped, Orris groaned, Dunga cursed under her breath.
‘So many of them.’
‘We don’t stand a chance.’
Riff grunted. ‘Not only troops. War machines too.’
She pointed to a part of the battlefield where hundreds of wheeled vehicles were lined up in rows. From this height, they looked like black beetles with silvery wing-cases.
And there was more. Col saw mighty brass tubes elevated at 45-degree angles, aimed at Liberator. He saw a huge red hose that stretched all across the battlefield from the Romanov’s second segment. And in the very centre of the Imperialist forces—
‘What’s that?’ Dunga asked the question before he could ask it himself.
It was a kind of tower, an octagonal structure open at the bottom and closed in at the top. Flagpoles and flags rose from its eight corners, banners swathed its metal legs.
‘Must be something important,’ said Riff.
A system of raised walkways converged towards the tower like ribbons laid out between the troop formations. Four ribbons combined into two, then two into one.
Ferr-whooshh!
A ball of light drew everyone’s attention – a ball of light shooting up from one of the brass tubes. It looped high in the air, seemed to hover for a moment, then arced down upon Liberator. Missing the scoops, it smashed against the side of the hull. A white flare of intense brightness radiated from the point of impact.
Ferr-whooshh! Ferr-whooshh! Ferr-whooshh! Ferr-whooshh!
Col had black dots before his eyes. From all parts of the battlefield, tubes fired off their balls of light. Some landed and flared in no-man’s-land next to the hull; some passed clean over the top; and two splashed light over the superstructure. The gunners were still getting their range.
‘We have to do something,’ said Col.
‘What?’ asked Cree.
‘Cut off that hose for a start,’ said Riff. ‘See where it’s coming from?’
Col already knew where it came from: the detached second segment of the Russian juggernaut. But now he understood the implications. ‘I bet it’s for pumping yellow gas.’
Orris grimaced. ‘The Russians’ favourite weapon.’
‘They’ll poison everyone on Liberator.’
‘But how do we get down?’ asked Jarvey.
Col chewed at his lip. It would take ages to go back down by way of steam elevator, pipe and engine-room . . .
‘I know!’ cried Dunga. ‘Look!’
They followed the line of her pointing arm.
Riff whistled in amazement. ‘Lye’s ropes!’
A hundred yards along the side of the Romanov’s hull were two ropes dangling down. Although Riff had ordered the ropes cut loose at the Liberator end, they were still attached to the grappling hook at the Romanov end.
The Filthies were elated, but Orris pulled at his chin.
‘I don’t think I can climb down there,’ he said.
Col wasn’t too sure about it himself. Though half his father’s age, he was still heavier and less agile than the Filthies.
‘You don’t need to,’ Riff told Orris. ‘You stay here with Unya and complete the revolution.’
‘How?’
‘Can you say ‘The Tsar is dead’?’
Orris thought for a moment. ‘Tsar mertv.’
‘Unya?’
Unya looked round, and Orris repeated the phrase. ‘Tsar mertv.’
Unya clapped her hands. ‘Tsar mertv! Tsarina mertva!’
‘Yes, Tsarina too.’ Riff turned to Orris. ‘Your job is to shout that to the Imperial guards until they give up fighting.’ She turned to Col. ‘How about you? Can you do it?’
She meant the climb down the ropes. Col pulled a face. ‘What have I got to lose?’
Riff grinned. ‘Right. We can’t survive anyway.’
‘Not against the whole Imperialist army.’
‘We’re finished.’ Riff’s grin broadened. ‘Nothing matters any more.’
‘Nothing at all.’
He was watching her eyes. Suddenly it was as if no one else was there. This wasn’t a combat, yet he was waiting for the movement in her eyes that foretold a movement of the muscles. He had the strangest sense of freedom . . . the strings that had been tying him down were all at once dissolved. If they were going to die anyway . . .
He sprang forward as she sprang forward. He seized her in a hug – the tightest, hardest, fiercest hug. She squeezed back just as hard. Then she kissed him, not softly or tenderly, but as though to imprint herself onto him. He returned her kiss with a kind of consuming desperation. They clung to each other until they could hardly breathe.
‘Tsar mertv!’ yelled Orris at the top of his voice.
‘Tsarina mertva!’ yelled Unya.
They were advancing across the deck, telling the Imperial guards that their rulers were dead.
Col and Riff pulled reluctantly apart. They were still looking into each other’s eyes.
‘I guess luck was against us,’ Riff murmured.
Col shook his head. ‘I feel lucky,’ he said. ‘I feel like the luckiest person in the world.’
‘Come on, you two! We’re going!’
Dunga, Cree and Jarvey were already running towards the ropes. Col and Riff turned and ran after them.
Col and Riff started down the ropes side by side, but Riff, being nimbler, soon moved ahead. Col had slid his sword through his belt so that the blade hung down safely out of the way. He let the rope pass around his shoulder and lowered himself hand over hand, walking down backwards with his feet braced against the hull.
He had never felt so intensely alive in his life. He had the breeze on his skin, the sun on his back and fresh air in his lungs. Nothing mattered, nothing at all – and he went down the rope as if on wings.
The last stretch was the hardest, when the rope stopped short fifty feet a
bove the ground. Looking down, Col saw Riff moving like a crab, clinging to bolt-heads with fingers and toes, pressing herself flat against the metal.
He copied her technique. It was even more difficult with the sword swinging against his side, but he was infallible. He clambered to within ten feet of the ground, then jumped the rest of the way. The point of the sword stabbed down into the soft earth beside him.
Riff, Dunga, Jarvey and Cree were discussing the next move as they waited for him. There were no soldiers or officers nearby; the troop formations had all moved up towards the besieged Liberator. A number of soldiers stood around the hose, where it emerged from the Romanov’s detached second segment – but not many of them. No doubt that was why Riff had made it their first target.
Col saw no reason to delay. There was a hose to cut, and he had the sharp-edged blade with which to cut it. He raised his sword and flourished it over his head.
‘Let’s go!’
He set off running, and the others sped after him.
The grass was wet from the recent rain, and sparkled in the sunshine. Col kicked up spray as he ran, and sploshed through puddles as if they weren’t there. Not once did he glance back to check that the others were following. He was utterly carefree and utterly reckless.
Looking ahead, he saw how the hose passed at intervals through lumpish bits of machinery. Pumping-engines, perhaps? The Russian soldiers were gazing towards Liberator and hadn’t yet noticed his approach. Naturally, they had no idea of the revolution that had just taken place in the main front segment of their own juggernaut.
Col kept as far away from the soldiers as possible, and ran right up to the hose. It was two feet in diameter, red and rubbery. He lifted his sword and swung. The blade sliced down – deep enough to reach the hollow core, though not deep enough to cut all the way through.
A hiss of yellow gas escaped. It had an evil reek, sweet and bitter at the same time.
A voice cried out in Russian, a shout of alarm.
Col had a vague sense that the rest of the team had come up around him. He raised his sword for a second blow, but Cree dragged at his elbow and yelled, ‘Run! Run! Run!’
It wasn’t the Russian soldiers they needed to flee, but the gas itself, pouring out of the gash in the hose.
Col ran with the rest – but still had the sense of a job unfinished. Was it so difficult to patch over a hose? He skidded to a halt and looked back.
‘Wait up,’ he cried.
‘What?’
‘Give me cover.’
He ran in again, heading for a different part of the hose. This time, he was close to one of the bits of machinery: a strange contraption mounted on wheels, with a great central bellows puffing in and out. Even better! There would be no way to repair a wrecked pumping-engine.
He veered towards it. Shots were fired, but he didn’t know if they came from the Russian soldiers, or from Riff’s pistol and Dunga’s rifle. He was still in his crazy mood of exhilaration.
He swooped on the pumping-engine, where it was chugging quietly away, and thrust his sword into the heart of its moving mechanical parts. There was a screech of metal, and the chugging ceased. Again and again he thrust – and, for a coup de grâce, plunged the blade into the bellows.
With a wheezing gasp, the bellows let out a great cloud of yellow gas. Col jumped back a moment too late, and the poisonous stuff blew into his face. His eyes streamed, his nostrils stung, the back of his throat was on fire.
‘Don’t breathe it in!’ shouted Riff.
The rest of the team had come up around him again. They half-pulled and half-carried him away to fresh air. Someone thumped him on the back, and he coughed and spat and spluttered.
‘Can you run?’ Riff asked.
He took a shallow breath, and discovered that the gas hadn’t invaded his lungs. He nodded.
A hand that felt like Riff’s caught hold of his own. Still blinded by tears, he stumbled along where he was led. Plants whipped at his legs, mud sucked at the soles of his feet. He heard gunshots that might have come from Russian soldiers, but the sounds grew less and less frequent.
‘This’ll do,’ said Riff.
The hand pulled him down, and he found himself lying among twigs and leaves. He rubbed the tears from his eyes and looked out blearily. The team had taken shelter in the middle of a dense patch of bushes.
He scanned around and saw no signs of pursuit. Behind them, the cloud of gas had expanded enormously, drifting towards the Romanov. Ahead of them, the nearest troop formations wore green uniforms. To their left, a branch of the raised walkway ran along on a kind of low scaffolding.
‘We did it,’ said Cree.
Dunga shook her head at Col. ‘You were mad,’ she growled.
They watched as balls of light continued to lob against Liberator, staining the sky with slanting columns of smoke. The troop formations were still marching, the battlefield was still humming with activity. Their success in disabling the Russians’ favourite weapon seemed to have had little effect on the overall siege. No doubt the other Imperialist forces had favourite weapons of their own.
Suddenly an amplified megaphone voice boomed out far and wide. The words were in a foreign language, but the tone was clearly a tone of command. After half a minute, a second voice took over, speaking a different foreign language.
‘It’s coming from the tower,’ said Jarvey.
‘Orders to the troops,’ Riff deduced. ‘So the tower must be their central command post.’
Cree nodded. ‘That’s why the walkways lead up to it.’
‘All their generals gathered there,’ said Dunga.
‘Their Supreme Commanders,’ added Col.
‘Do you know what I’m thinking?’ Riff asked.
A long silence. Everyone had had the same thought – and wished they hadn’t.
‘There’s only one way to make a real difference,’ Riff continued.
‘Attack the tower,’ said Dunga grimly. ‘Take out their commanders.’
‘Right. We’re the only ones who can do it. We can creep up under the walkways. Well?’
Cree shrugged. ‘Yeah. What else have we got to do?’
‘Might as well go out trying,’ Dunga agreed.
Patches of bushes gave them cover as far as the walkway. They kept their heads down and crawled along on their elbows and knees.
Once in under the walkway, they rose to a crouching stance. The deck was solid wooden planking, four feet above the ground. The struts and braces of the scaffolding hid them from view at the sides.
Now they could move much faster – except when they heard footsteps tramping on the planks overhead. Four times they had to stop and hold their breath until the footsteps passed on.
After a while, they came up level with the rear lines of the main Imperialist forces. They were all on one side of the walkway, and wore not only green uniforms, but also green helmets with plumes of green feathers. Col guessed they were Austrians from the Grosse Wien, since they had the letters GW painted in white on their helmets.
‘What do you make of those?’ Riff hissed.
She pointed to the strange devices that the soldiers nursed in their arms. They were like mechanical hedgehogs with copper-coloured bodies, projecting nozzles and a great many steel spikes. Some sort of special weapon, presumably. Septimus might know what they were, but Col didn’t have a clue.
Further on again, Imperialist forces of a different kind appeared on the other side of the walkway. Col peered out through the scaffolding at the same silver-and-black vehicles he had observed from the deck of the Romanov.
Their silvery parts were their open-spoked wheels and torpedo-shaped snouts; their black parts were their frames and riders. No part of any vehicle or rider rose more than two feet above the ground. The riders, who wore masks
and goggles, were almost horizontal on their backs. They steered with rods on either side and propelled their vehicles by pedalling with their feet.
The vehicles were all in motion now, hundreds upon hundreds of them, like a glittering sea. The waves of the sea were the riders’ knees rising and falling in perfect unison. Like a swarm of beetles, they advanced in close-packed formation, with a murmurous sound of thrumming and drumming.
The team continued to advance underneath the walkway. The planking over their heads came down lower until they were forced to scuttle along, bent almost double. It was particularly difficult for Col, who was taller than any of the Filthies. After a while, their walkway joined up with another walkway.
Keeping a watchful eye on the planking, Col failed to notice a sudden hump in the ground ahead. Riff went around it, but he caught his foot and fell flat on his face.
‘Ow!’ said the hump in a muffled voice.
Two eyes and a mouth appeared in the muddy shape of it. Col disentangled his legs and sat up. It looked like a pile of earth, but it was actually Mr Gibber.
‘I know you.’ The voice was a little less muffled now. ‘You’re Colbert Porpentine.’
‘Right.’ Col scrambled to his feet. ‘Glad you’re not dead any more.’
‘Wait.’ Mr Gibber reached out a muddy arm and gripped Col by the ankle. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me? Don’t you want to hear about my experiences?’
‘Not now.’
‘I had a vision in the night, you know.’ Mr Gibber maintained his grip. ‘I died and came back to life.’
Riff had already moved on. Dunga, Cree and Jarvey detoured around Mr Gibber and followed her. No one wanted to waste time on Lye’s little spy.
‘Let me show you!’ Mr Gibber let go of Col’s ankle and dug into his clothing at the side. ‘The evidence! A miracle!’ He held up the now-empty pack of biscuits that Cree had slipped into his jacket pocket. ‘It came out of nowhere. Redemption in the night! I believe an angel did it.’
Liberator Page 31