Heirs of Empire

sent three relatively fresh regiments racing west from his reserve and hoped it would be enough.

* * *

“What—?”

High Priest Vroxhan whirled towards the window as shots sounded right outside the Chancery, and his jaw dropped as bullets spun men around in the Place of Martyrs. A heretic attack here? It couldn’t be!

But it was happening. Even as he watched, ragged, battle-stained men erupted into the open, fell into line, and poured a devastating, steadily mounting fire into the single understrength Guard company in the square. He stared at the carnage, unable to believe what he was seeing, then looked up as he sensed a presence at his side.

“Lord Marshal!” he gasped. “Have they broken through Therah?”

“Impossible!” Surak jerked a spyglass open and raised it to his eye, then swore and closed it with a snap. “They’re from the depot, Holiness. No one else could have gotten here, and there’s a man out there who’s so tall he has to be ‘Lord Sean.’ ”

“What are they doing out here?”

“Trying to escape … or to divert reinforcements from the North Gate. Either way, there’s not enough of them to be a threat.”

“Can they escape?”

“It’s possible, Holiness. Not likely, but possible, especially if they go south instead of trying to link up with Tibold.”

“Stop them! Stop them!” Vroxhan shouted.

“With what, Holiness? Aside from your personal guard, my headquarters troop, and the detachment at the Sanctum, every man I have is headed for North Gate.”

Vroxhan started to speak once more, then closed his mouth and watched the heretics finish routing the hapless Guard company and reform into column. As Surak had predicted, they headed south, and the high priest clenched his fists in sullen hate. They were getting away. The leaders of this damnable heresy were escaping him, and as soon as they were safe, the rest of their army would break off its attack. Bile rose in his throat, and he raised his eyes from the vanishing demon-worshipers to the huge, white block of the Sanctum. Why? he demanded of God. Why are You letting this happen? Why—

And then his thoughts froze in a sudden flash of terrified intuition. Escape? They weren’t trying to escape! As if God Himself had whispered it in his ear, Vroxhan knew where they were headed, and his blood ran chill.

“The Sanctum!” he gasped. The lord marshal looked at him blankly, and Vroxhan grabbed him and shook him. “They’re headed for the Sanctum itself!”

“The— Why should they be, Holiness?”

“Because they’re demon-worshipers!” Vroxhan half-screamed. “My God, man! They serve the powers of Hell—what if their masters have given them some means to destroy the Voice? If we lose its protection, how will we stop the next wave of demons from the stars?”

“But—”

“There’s no time, Lord Marshal! Signal the Sanctum detachment now! Tell them they must keep the heretics from entering, then send every man you can find after them!”

“But there’s only your own guard, Holiness, and—”

“Send them! Send them!” Vroxhan shook the lord marshal again. “No! I’ll take them myself !” he cried wildly, and whirled away from Surak.

* * *

Tamman led the way. His men didn’t like it, and they kept trying to get past him, to put themselves between him and any possible enemies, but he waved them sharply back whenever they did. He wasn’t being heroic; he needed to be up front to scout their path with his implants.

The chaos in the streets was even worse than he’d feared. There were few Guardsmen about, but thousands of civilians had fled the fighting, and most of them seemed to be headed for the Sanctum to pray for deliverance. In fairness, they had the sense to scatter the instant they saw armed men coming up behind them, but even with panic to spur them on, they took time to get out of his way. Worse, with so many civilians moving around, it was hard to spot any Guard formations he might encounter.

The column moved quickly, when it could move at all, but its progress was a series of breathless dashes separated by slow, wading progress through the noncombatants, and Tamman was sorely tempted to order his men to open fire to chase the crowds off faster. He couldn’t, but he was tempted.

He crossed a small square and looked up. The huge block of the Sanctum loomed ahead of him. Fifteen more minutes, he thought; possibly twenty.

* * *

“Faster! Faster!” Vroxhan shouted.

“Holiness, we can go no faster!” Captain Farnah, his personal guard’s commander protested, waving at the civilians who clogged their path. “The people—”

“What do the people matter when demon-worshipers go to profane the very Sanctum of God?!” Vroxhan snapped, and his eyes were mad. He’d lost sight of the heretics while his guards mustered; they were up ahead somewhere, headed for the Sanctum. That was all he knew … and all he needed to know. “Clear the path, Captain! You have pikes; now clear the path!”

Farnah stared at him, as if unable to believe his orders, but Vroxhan snarled at him, and the Guardsman turned away. He shouted orders of his own, and within seconds Vroxhan heard the screams as the leading pikemen lowered their weapons, faces set like iron, and swept ahead. Men, women, even children were smashed aside or died, and the seven hundred men of Vroxhan’s personal guard marched over their bodies.

* * *

The fighting on Tibold’s right rose to a crescendo as the Guard threw his flank back eight hundred paces in a driving, brutal attack. But then the charging pikemen ran into pointblank, massed chagor fire, and the regiments Tibold had sent from the reserve crashed into them. It was the Guard’s turn to reel back, yet they retreated only half the distance they’d come, then held sullenly, and now more Guard reinforcements were hammering his left.

He swore again, more vilely than ever. He was losing his momentum. He could feel the army’s advance grinding to a halt amid the blazing ruins.

* * *

“Watch the wall! Men on the wall!” Tamman shouted as fifty musketeers suddenly rose over the parapet of the ornamental wall about the Sanctum. The square outside it was packed with civilians who screamed in terror as the Guardsmen leveled their muskets to pour fire into B Company’s skirmish line, but Tamman’s warning had come before they were in position. A withering blast of rifle fire met them, and, more horribly, the civilians between the two forces soaked up much of their own fire. Despite the cover of the waist-high parapet, they took heavier losses than the skirmishers, and then the rest of B Company came up with C Company in