“Each of us is worth more than ten of them anyway!” One of the locals called, voice heavy with his strange accent.
Then another voice said what Crispin had been dreading. “But you brought this down on us!”
“Oui!” said the man whom Crispin had almost mistaken for Hadrian, “Why should we fight for you?”
“Fight for me?” Crispin repeated. “Fight with me. Fight for your homes, your families—because I will. When this is done I will set everything to rights. You people, your priest … you took us in. You saved our lives. I know that this!” He gestured at the world outside the church, “Is poor repayment, but I swear to you I will make this right, and I will start by standing with you now.” And he conjured the blade of his sword. The highmatter cast a ghostly light against the darkly wooden pews to either side. “Who’s with me?”
One man cheered, raising his fist in solidarity with Crispin’s upthrust sword.
One man.
Then another. And a third. And soon the gathered fighting men were shouting with one voice, and the noise of Crispin’s own throat was lost in the swell of it. The noise of half a hundred men filled the air of the church and rattled the chandeliers on their chains.
Half a hundred men.
Crispin prayed they were enough.
Chapter 13
Then the Thunder Spoke
The first shot sounded not seconds later, making Crispin flinch. Running, he was first out the doors of the church, and first to see the landing ship burning, turned into a falling star above the town. The earth shook as it fell and smote some peasant’s cottage. The world was oddly silent in the moments that followed, as if all creation held its breath in shock or in anticipation of the carnage that was to come. The need for ceremony gone, Crispin shut off his sword and stowed the handle in the pocket of his cape. Reaching into the niche beside the statue of St. Christopher, he pulled out one of the energy lances they had taken from the catacombs and powered it on. The shaft buzzed in his hands as the thing began to charge, and Crispin looked up at the solitary spire of the ship towering above the village and the golden serpent that flew above it from a banner large as any of the houses surrounding him.
Black shapes—a flock of ravens, it seemed—broke away from the tower and took flight, and with dismay Crispin realized what they were. More skiffs. A dozen of them. Maybe more. He glanced around at the damage a mere two had wrought upon the church behind him, and he squeezed the lance until the bones of his fingers creaked.
“Sir!” a familiar voice rang out, and Crispin saw Lud emerging from the church behind amid a string of adorators. He had donned his armor again, and carried his plasma burner in his hand. “Lady Sabine said I’m to keep an eye on you.”
For a moment, Crispin considered arguing. Instead he clapped the man on the shoulder. “Very good, soldier. With me!” And with that he turned towards the gate that led back out of the churchyard and towards the city.
“Shouldn’t we stay and guard the sanctum, sire?” Lud asked.
“The sanctum’s bound to draw their fire. That old priest’s gone back into the caves with his people. They’ll be safe enough even if the roof caves in. But our enemy’s coming from the air, which means we need cover.” He pointed ahead. Beneath them, the village of St. Maximus spidered away down the hill, street after street spiraling higher and higher to the level of the old Catholic church, with stepped and slanting avenues slicing through from the churchyard gate to the outer wall. Not a one of them ran straight, but followed the track of the hill on which the town was raised.
“The houses?” Lud’s voice came out flat through his suit’s speakers.
“The streets!” Crispin said, lurching into the shadow of a grocery. “Assuming your captain doesn’t drop a ship on our heads! We have to make them come to us! Use the town to split them up.”
As if on cue, one of the skiffs flew overhead, and the staccato sound of gunfire came as the villagers opened fire. Somewhere not far off, Crispin could hear the sound of rotors, and he guessed that one of the Kingfishers had found a place to land. How many men had Father Laurent said they could carry? Twenty? Or was it thirty? He had an awful feeling they would find out—and soon. Sheltering against the chipped yellow plaster of the grocery wall, Crispin tucked the lance into the crook of his arm and sighted along it. It was not by design a long-range weapon—laser beams lost their coherency over great distances—but it could cover the few thousand feet between Crispin and the approaching skiffs. It had no scope, but there were iron sights near the head of the weapon. Crispin shut one eye, tracking the progress of one skiff against the gray-white sky. He clicked the button. There was no kick, no recoil as the lance fired. Only a clear, bright tone from an indicator to tell that it had fired. It was not like it is in the operas. No beam of red or violet light. No noise but for the glowing sound of the indicator. Only death. The skiff he’d targeted began to smoke and tumbled out of the sky like a duck felled by the hunter. Crispin felt himself grin with satisfaction, forgetting in the heat of the moment the man who had fallen with it and the sensation of Medved’s blood soaking his knees.
Not finished, Crispin gritted his teeth and tracked the point of his lance left and lower, catching a second of the skiffs as it made a wide arc in the air. It fell, and Crispin watched it arc past the tower where Kyra worked the plasma cannon. And he saw her fire, low and into the city—had another of the landing craft made it through? He heard an iron scream and the crunch of something heavy striking the ground, and he guessed that something might have been hit after all. Two of the Kingfishers? So quickly?
He should not have thought such things. His optimism had tempted Fate, who is ever listening for those mortals foolish enough to defy her. Half a dozen men in matte gray emerged onto the street below them, escorting a single man in heavy ceramic armor who carried a massive plasma burner connected by hoses to a reservoir on his back.
They were burning as they went.
How had he not smelled it before? Was the wind against him? Surely there was the smoke rising behind them, and violet flames cooling fast to blue. To white. To angry gold. Crispin did not stop to consult with Lud, but took aim with his lance, training the point on the armored man in the center of the little cluster. Fired. He saw the fractal gleam of a shield barrier glow in reaction to his beam. Angrily, he swept the lance across the cluster of men advancing up the road. Shield glimmer followed man after man. Only one of them was unshielded, and he stumbled, fell smoking to the cobbles.
Lud fired over Crispin’s shoulder, blue-violet glow of air-fed plasma highlighting the plastered homefronts and unglassed windows of the peasant town. The shot exploded against the first men in the little platoon. They recoiled but did not fall. Just as Crispin’s shield had saved him from skiff fire the night before, so their shields saved them—and the fireproofing in their armor.
“Have you got anything for close work?” Crispin asked the other man, ducking back around the corner of the grocery to find cover. “Just my belt knife,” the peltast replied.
Grunting, Crispin handed the man his energy lance. The blade on one end was nearly two feet long, and the ceramic of which it was made would cut nearly as sure as highmatter. Snapping his fingers, Crispin said, “Give me your plasma burner.” The man did so without question. “They’re coming up here. When they turn the corner, you hit them.”
The other man pounded his chest in brief salute. “I’ll cover your retreat, my lord.”
“I’m not retreating!” Crispin hissed, moving towards the back of the grocery. He was fishing out his sword. “I’m coming up behind them!” Then he turned and rounded the building, moving towards the next alley down, mindful of the empty wooden crates that stood stacked by a back door in the alley. Chickens made startled sounds from wire cages as he passed, peering out around the building to watch the enemy soldiers hurry past. They did not slow to burn the buildings here, and Crispin wondered if they had recognized him as he’d stood in the street above them.<
br />
Probably they had.
That was well; he hoped their haste and their hunger to kill their primary target would be enough to make them sloppy.
And so he returned to the street one block down from where he’d left Lud just as he heard the sounds of fighting pick up where he had just been. Lud let out a mighty yell, and Crispin saw the bayonet point on the firing end of the lance skewer one of the Durantine mercenaries in the gut. The point had passed through the man’s energy shield and pierced the thermal layer of his suit. The clear, bright tone of the lance rang out, and the man yelped and fell smoking to the pavement. Lud drew the lance point out and swung it round, bringing the glaive end down sharply to bite into the shoulder of a second man. It bounced off his armor plating, and for a moment Crispin feared the zircon blade had shattered.
He had to move fast, could see the hoplite in his heavy armor taking aim with that massive flamethrower of his. Even shielded, Lud would not endure such an assault unscathed.
Crispin kindled the blade his father had given him, highmatter flowing like water. He brought the blade up in a rising diagonal that cleaved a man from hip bone to the opposing shoulder, then brought the blade back across and through a second man at the neck.
They never saw him coming, and for an awful moment the second man still stood, and Crispin guessed somehow from the way the light reflected off his dull black visor that the man knew what had happened to him. Knew that he was dead. Then his head tumbled backwards and fell to the pavement. The second man fell in two pieces. There was blood on the cobbles—and confusion amongst the surviving men. One turned, and got off a shot with his rifle. The bullet went wide, and a second shot impacted Crispin’s shield and shattered. Crispin ducked his head reflexively, but lashed out with his sword all the same. A wash of plasma fire arced from the hoplite’s flamethrower, washing over Lud and the storefront behind him.
Someone grabbed Crispin by the arm, pulling him down. Stumbling, Crispin fired the plasma burner in his off hand, the shot firing wildly in the air. It was enough to startle his attacker, and Crispin lurched forward, trying to tug his sword hand free. He felt something scrape his side, and he was sure that one of the other men had stabbed him with a knife, but the blade had gotten tangled in his cape and missed him by microns. Twisting, Crispin shoved the muzzle of his plasma burner into the armpit of the man who held his arm and fired. The soldier shrieked and stumbled back, releasing Crispin’s arm.
The whole exchange had lasted only a quarter of a minute, but still Crispin feared he was too late. Lud was still on his feet, a black figure amidst cooling golden flames, but even as Crispin rose, Lud fell backwards. The lordling lunged, thrusting his sword down to slice through the fuel hose that connected the burner to the plasma reservoir on the hoplite’s back. The jet of flame stopped almost at once, and something huge and heavy tackled Crispin from the left. He hit the pavement and the wind went out of him. The man on top of him pinned his sword arm with one hand and brought his other fist down clumsily into Crispin’s face. Crispin hammered on the man’s back with his free hand, trying to point the burner at the man even as he punched Crispin in the jaw.
His vision blurred, and for a moment Crispin feared he might lose consciousness. And there were still two men living besides the one on top of him—or was it three? All one of them had to do was stab him and it would all be over. All of it. And then they would go after Sabine …
Groaning, he tried to rise, tried to throw the other man off. He tried to twist his sword hand in, to bring that impossibly sharp blade up through the man bestride him. It was no good.
A high, bright tone sounded, and the shield of the man atop him glowed in response. Twisting his neck, Crispin saw Lud—armor still glowing from the plasma—leaning against the wall of the burning grocery. He was alive! And he still had the lance in his hands, and it was pointed at Crispin’s attacker.
But the lance was no good to Crispin, not with the shield in the way. The shield.
Without thinking, Crispin dropped his plasma burner and seized the man atop him by the belt, fingers scrabbling to find—there! Before his attacker could so much as strike him again, Crispin thumbed the switch and depowered his opponent’s shield.
That high, bright sound rang out again, clear as the winding of trumpets in the morning air, and at once the man atop Crispin was only so much dead weight. Crispin pushed him off, took up his plasma burner once more. Had Lud killed another of the men while he was on the ground? It was hard to say. The charred peltast hefted his lance, smoke still trailing from the Marlowe horns on his helmet, and swung the lance like a halberd, chopping at the neck joint in his opponent’s armor.
The big hoplite retreated from Crispin, fearing the highmatter sword. Head still ringing, Crispin followed. He raised his plasma burner and fired, catching the hoplite in the face. The shot flashed uselessly off his enemy’s shield, but Crispin hoped it had blinded the man a moment. The lordling rushed in, sweeping his blade low. But the Durantine soldier stepped inside his cut, so that he blocked Crispin’s arm and not the all-dangerous blade. He brought his armored elbow up into Crispin’s chin. The force of the blow sent the young lord staggering, and but for the wall at his back he might have fallen. He fired at Crispin with a phase disruptor he’d produced from his belt. The shot clashed uselessly against Crispin’s shield.
Baring his teeth, Crispin toggled his plasma burner to continuous fire and pulled the trigger. A great loop of violet plasma—arcing like the lines of a solar flare—spat from the weapon. Cocking his wrist, Crispin kept the weapon aimed squarely at the man’s face as he advanced, conscious of the heat indicator slipping from blue to white to red. He could feel the burner’s composites starting to warm in his hand, but he continued his slow march forward all the same. When at last he was within striking distance of his foe, he ceased fire and lunged. The point of his sword passed effortlessly through the armor plating on the Durantine’s chest, through the suit underlayment and the sternum to emerge out the man’s back side. Crispin drew the blade out sideways, shearing the left ribs and the heart beneath it—cleaving off the left arm as Crispin recovered to guard.
Only then did his plasma burner automatically eject its aluminum heat sink, the spent core clinking away across the cobble stones. Despite his injuries, Lud had done for the last man, and Crispin realized with stunned surprise that it was over. The engagement was over at least. Not the battle. Not the day.
“Are you all right?” he asked Lud. The soldier was still smoking. “Some burns, sire, but the armor took the most of it.” He sounded almost cheerful, insane as that was. “You’re sure?” Crispin asked.
Lud raised one shoulder in an asymmetrical shrug, “Elbows got the worst of it. No armor on the inside, but the thermal layer held up. Remind me to thank your lord father for springing for the good stuff.” Then he added, “Do you want the lance back, sir?”
Crispin almost laughed. “No! Earth and Emperor … but give me your spare heat sinks. I burned one out killing that big bastard.” He massaged his jaw, and thanked Earth and Fortitude that he had not lost a tooth—he couldn’t expect his third set to start growing in for another forty years. As the noise of the blood pounding in his head quietened, Crispin became aware of the sounds of battle around them: the crunch and crack of burning buildings, the noise of gunfire, the shouts of fighting men. Distantly, he heard the roar of Kyra’s plasma howitzer and the high shrilling of the peasants whistling, coordinating their positions. “We need to move, Lud. Can you still fight?”
The other man passed Crispin a half dozen heat sinks on a braided line. “It’ll take more than some burned elbows to put me down, sir.”
“Good man.” Crispin pointed with his sword, down the high street and around one of the bending lanes. “Let’s go back the way they came, see if the captain really did shoot down that troop carrier.” He shut off the blade long enough to fumble one of the heat sinks into place. He fired a test shot and the ground and—satisfied—moved off
down the street.
• • •
Kyra had shot down one of the troop carriers, and Crispin guessed the men they’d fought on the street had escaped it when it fell its short way onto the square where it lay broken and burning. A painted bronze statue of a man on a horse thrusting a lance at the sky dominated one end of the little plaza, untouched by the burning of the dry cypress trees near at hand.
There were bodies in the square. Some in gray armor, some in ragged clothes. One of the peasants had been lifted bodily and dropped over a spiked iron fence; another peasant still smoldered, and in the aftermath of plasma fire his bones shone white as snow. Crispin made the sign of the sun disc discreetly, though he suspected the dead pagans would not have appreciated the gesture.
“If there was anyone here, sir, they’re long gone,” Lud said, leaning on his energy lance as though it were a staff. He took a moment to adjust the pilfered shield-belt he’d taken off the body of one of the mercenaries.
Crispin said nothing, but silently he agreed.
The whine of repulsors streaking overhead drove both men to shelter beneath the eaves of a yet unburning building. Two skiffs soared overhead, firing down on some other street. As they watched, Crispin saw plasma fire returned from the streets below. One shot exploded against the shielded underbelly of the skiff.
“That’s going to be a problem,” he said. It was Lud’s turn not to answer.
“Do you think that peasant got through to home?” Crispin asked.
The Lesser Devil Page 12