The Merchants’ War

was shouting excitedly, something about the room being clear. “Listen up!” he called. “Change of plan. We’re going in now. Housecleaning only, new plan is to secure the upper floors, strictly indoors. Anyone who goes outdoors gets their ass shot off: the bad guys have got their hands on a couple of M60s, and until we pinpoint them we’re not going to be able to break out. Lance three, follow me in. Lance two, follow after.”

He strode up the ramp as fast as he could, bringing his M16 down from his shoulder. The messenger was almost jumping from foot to foot. “It’s clear, sir! It went really well. Erik said to tell you he’s moving out into the upper gallery and will secure the roof line. Is that right?”

“It was.” Five minutes ago, before we knew they had machine guns on the bastions. Helmut shook his head, an angry sense of injustice eating at his guts. Erik was probably already dead. “Okay, let’s go to work.” He glanced over his shoulder, at Irma and Martyn and the others in the lance he, personally, led: they were watching him, trusting him to lead them into the unknown. “For the glory of the Clan! Follow me…”

Doppelgangered

Otto nearly didn’t make it out of the castle. He was in the courtyard with Sir Geraunt and his personal guards, supervising the withdrawal of the body of his forces to the gatehouse and the prepared positions outside the castle walls, when there was a deafeningly loud thud from inside the central keep. “What’s that?” Geraunt asked, stupidly.

“Nothing I planned.” Otto turned to Heidlor, who was waiting for further instructions: “Stations! As I ordered!” The hand-man hurried off, and Otto met Sir Geraunt’s curious gaze. “It’ll be the enemy. Too damned early, blast them. Quickly, this way.”

“But the fighting—”

Otto bit back his first response. “A commander who gets himself killed in the first engagement isn’t terribly effective later in the battle,” he muttered. “Come on.” He hurried towards the gate tower’s postern door. “You there! Stand by!”

A crackle of witch-gun fire echoed out of the central keep. On the top of the gate tower, and the tops of the four towers around the curtain wall, he saw the shields of the captured M60s swinging to bear on the keep.

More gunfire, and screams—this time, the flat boom of his own men’s musketry, but far too little of it, too late. Gods, they’re good. He could see it in his mind’s eye: the witches appearing in the middle of a room, unable to enter in strength, surrounded by the cat’s cradle of ropes while his men hacked at them desperately with blade and club, trying to keep them from advancing into the keep before the welcome mat was ready—

He paused at an arrow slit. A light blinked in one window high up in the keep, flashing a prearranged signal. He blinked, then swore. “What is it?” asked Sir Geraunt.

“They had a back door,” Otto said tersely. Just as he feared: and they’d come through it hard and fast, hours sooner than his plan called for. “Every man of ours in the keep is as good as dead.” He turned from the window and stopped: Sir Geraunt was between him and the staircase leading up to the top of the gatehouse.

“We must do something! Give me a score of men and I’ll force an entrance—”

“No you won’t.” Otto breathed deeply. “Come on, follow me. It’s premature, but.” A grinding roar split the air overhead and he winced: it stopped for a moment, then started again, bursts of noise hammering at his ears like fists as the machine gun battery opened fire on the roofline of the keep, scything through the figures who had just appeared there. “Quickly!”

Up on top of the gatehouse the stench of burned powder and the hammering racket of the guns were well- nigh unbearable. Otto headed for the hetman he’d left in charge. “Anders. Report.”

“They’re pinned down!” Anders yelled over the guns. “They keep trying to take the roof and we keep sweeping them off it.” The machine gun paused as two of his men fumbled with gloves at the barrel, swearing as they inexpertly worked it free and tried to slot the replacement into position.

“They seem to have learned to keep their heads down,” Otto said dryly. A spatter of gunfire from a window in the keep targeted the doorway to the northern tower: the heavy guns on the south and west replied, chipping lumps of stone out of the sides of the arrow slit. “Keep them bottled up. Conserve your fire if you can.” He glared disapprovingly at the two other towers, whose gunners were pounding away at the enemy as if there was no shortage of ammunition. “Carry on.”

He ducked back down the stairs towards the guardroom overlooking the gate tunnels. “March,” he said, spotting a sergeant: “What state did you leave the charges in?”

“The barrels are in position, my lord.” March looked pleased with himself. “The cords were ready when I left.”

“Good!” Otto nodded. He looked around: there was an entire lance of soldiers in the room. “Then let’s set the timers and fall back to our prepared positions.” He made the sign of the crone behind his back, where the men couldn’t see it: If this fails…It wasn’t just the king’s men who knew how to fill a wise tree.

The duke was as tense as she had ever seen him: that worried Olga. Not that most of the junior nobility and officers scurrying between communications and intelligence tables would recognize the signs—Angbard was not one to fret obviously in public—but she had known him for years, almost as a favorite uncle, and had observed him in a variety of situations, and she’d seldom seen him as edgy as this. From the set of his shoulders to the way he held his hands behind his back as he listened to messengers and barked orders, the duke was clearly trying to conceal the extent of his ill-ease. Is it really that bad? she wondered.

It had started with the messenger who arrived just minutes after the vanguard of the raiding group crossed over into the treason room: she’d been close enough to hear the news of the machine guns, and he could hardly fault the duke for being disturbed by that. But as time went by, and the minutes counted on from the incursion, the duke had become even more unhappy. The brief message from Brilliana—she’d been standing right behind him when he received it—had brightened his mood momentarily, but the lack of courier reports was obviously preying on his mind. Clan security didn’t have enough bodies to keep him supplied with a blow-by-blow account of the action, and he knew better than to micromanage a skilled subordinate, but his patience had limits. And so, she waited by the duke’s command table, keeping one eye on Eorl Hjorth—who she trusted as far as she could throw him. Hjorth’s testimony to the council might well decide whether the duke remained in charge of Clan Security. So we’ll have to make sure that his testimony is favorable, won’t we?

“Sir, I have the hourly report from Eorl Riordan.” The messenger offered Angard a print-out to scrutinize. The duke glanced up. “Where’s Braun?” he demanded tensely.

“Sir.” Braun—a wiry fellow, one of the distaff side of the Hjorth-Wu side—saluted.

“Messenger for Helmut, or whoever’s in charge, immediate: sweep the cellars for explosive charges.” The duke paused for a moment. “He’s not to attempt to sally from the keep until Stefan’s unit is in place to take out the machine guns.” Olga glanced over her shoulder: the second platoon, with their heavy equipment, were already climbing the siege tower. “Instead, he’s to ensure there are no surprises in the cellars under the keep. I think the pretender’s trying to be clever.” He delivered the final word with contemptuous satisfaction. “What—”

There was some kind of disturbance going on at the perimeter. Even as Braun charged off to brief a courier, and the heavy weapons platoon climbed the tower and vanished from its top deck three at a time, a distant noise reached Olga’s ears, like the throbbing growl of distant traffic. She glanced up. Lightning Child! Not here, not now! A pair of guards detached themselves from the group near the awning and trotted towards the table. Reflexively, she moved her right hand close to her jacket pocket, interposing herself.

The first of the guards stopped three meters short and saluted. Olga relaxed slightly, for a moment. “Sir! We have hostiles in view. Sergeant Bjorg is calling a Threat Red.”

“How many hostiles?” asked the duke, as if it was a minor point of interest.

Olga cleared her throat. “Sir, I think we should evacuate now.”

“Two choppers overhead at last sighting, sir, but it’s not looking good on the ground, either: there’ve been no