Dragonfly Falling

Spider-kinden.’

And here was the warehouse she was taking him to. A secluded enough place on the edge of the docks quarter. Somewhat run-down and just the place for a clandestine meeting of the disaffected. Or an ambush.

She glanced behind, where the Mantis had now been joined by Tynisa. There was a puzzle there that Arianna had not been able to work out, because the girl was clearly as Spider as herself, and yet she had passed from being Stenwold’s ward to Tisamon’s. There would be no time now to work it through, and shortly it should not matter, not if the plan went right. Arianna bore Tynisa no malice, though she would shed no tears over the Mantis’s corpse. The plan demanded that both of them be laid in the earth and that was what must happen tonight.

She tugged at the door, and Stenwold stepped forward to help her open it. There was a young Ant-kinden waiting inside, who recognized them and nodded. He looked plausible for a student, one of the older ones at least, and there were hundreds of young scholars that Stenwold had never taught or even met. No clue therefore that he was no student at all but a mercenary on Graf’s books.

‘You’ll keep watch out here like last time?’ Stenwold murmured to Tisamon, and the Mantis nodded.

So Stenwold went in alone, just like the other times, leaving the Mantis with Tynisa under the evening sky, all of it happening as smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath.

Although he was not alone, of course, because Arianna was with him.

In the gloom of the warehouse three lamps were lit, and Stenwold stopped short, for the people ahead were not the youthful faces he had expected. A handful of men and one woman, but all with no need of any College lessons in their chosen trade. Scadran loomed at their centre, a large man even amongst large men. Arianna found the distance between her and Stenwold was growing as though a tide was pulling her from his side.

And it was Thalric himself who flared into view as he lit a fourth lamp. Two men lunged for Stenwold from the shadows even as he heard Tynisa crying out in pain outside. The first grabbed his left arm but he was already hauling himself away and the other man missed his catch. And then Stenwold had his blade out, lashing it across the arm of the Beetle-kinden mercenary who held him, making the man let go and fall back.

‘Master Maker!’ Thalric snapped out, one hand extended, fingers splayed. The sounds of steel on steel carrying from outside were increasing.

‘I can’t offer you a drink this time, Master Maker,’ Thalric said. ‘But I’ll have your sword.’

Eleven

There was smoke on the air but, at this distance from the walls, Alder knew that it was not the fires of the city in his nose, but the pyres of the dead. Many of the wounded had not survived the retreat, although the surgeons had this time at least been given a chance to work on them. It had not been the same scrambling rout as last time, having to abandon their fallen so shamefully.

There would be a lot of bloody faces to see, if and when he chose to. The dawn was lighting up an ugly scene in the camp, but that was the countenance of war. Alder had lived with it for decades now and it held few horrors for him any more. He was willing to bet that the scene within Tark was worse. At night, with surprise and three holes punched in the walls, the Ant-kinden losses had for once been greater than those of the attackers.

Which means that Drephos has done well, curse the man. Alder was a good soldier, though. He would happily postpone the pleasure of having the Colonel-Auxillian hoisted up on crossed spears, in return for the taking of this city. He would even add to the man’s long list of commendations, all equally grudgingly given.

Colonel Carvoc found him just then, thrusting a hurriedly tallied scroll into his hand. The assault was over and the Ants still held the walls, but taking them had never been the objective. The idea had been to inflict as much damage as possible whilst keeping the bulk of the imperial army intact. Alder surveyed the first lists of Wasp casualties and the estimates of Tarkesh losses, and found himself nodding. I can live with this. My record can live with this. We have done well, this past night.

‘Have we achieved enough, General?’

‘It wasn’t cheap, Carvoc,’ Alder admitted. He recalled that Captain Anadus had brought back less than a quarter of his men, bitterness etched deeper into his face at the fact of his own survival. The Moles he had sent out were all dead, and Captain Czerig was assumed dead as well, or at least he had not been seen amongst the living.

Colonel Edric was dead, for sure, though Alder found himself only mildly surprised that it had not happened before. When a man chose to live with savages he was likely to die like one, and they had died in their hundreds. The dregs of them that were left were barely worth using.

‘Send word to all captains involved in the attack,’ he told Carvoc. ‘I want the men congratulated for their discipline and order. Night attacks are normally a chaos, but they did well, all of them.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Alder’s eyes passed on across the list. ‘Half a dozen of the heliopters are down,’ he murmured, knowing that left eight still able to take to the air.

‘But they did their job, General,’ came Drephos’s voice in his ear, and Alder glanced back to see the hooded man reading over his shoulder. His instinct to strike the man or flinch away was ruthlessly surpressed. Instead he met the shadowed gaze calmly.

‘You witnessed it all, I suppose.’

‘I saw as much as I needed. What will they be flying, when tomorrow comes? You have destroyed most of the artillery on their eastern walls, and the walls themselves have seen better days. Endgame, General. Their air cavalry, their flying machines — what remains of them?’

Alder nodded soberly. It had indeed been a bloody night. The Mercy’s Daughters were filling every bed, giving help to the less wounded and last comfort to the dying, but Drephos was right: the endgame was at hand. He was glad of it. He had seen the Maynesh rebellion a few years back and he hated fighting Ant-kinden. Still, he felt a glowing coal of pride that it was him they had chosen to crush this first Lowlander city. Even if I have had to rely on this wretched monster to do it.

‘What do you want from me, Drephos?’ he growled. ‘You’ll get yourself a fair report, don’t worry. They’ll know what you’ve accomplished.’

A little cackle of a laugh came from within the cowl. ‘Oh, General, not so soon. Write nothing yet, I implore you. I’ve only started. Write your eulogies when the city has surrendered.’

For he has his scheme, Alder knew. I’d ask if it will work, but when has he been wrong yet? The entire military establishment despises this man, and yet it seems we cannot do without him.

‘I was at Maynes,’ Alder said. ‘I remember Ant-kinden.’

‘Maynes was a lesson to be learned, General,’ Drephos told him. ‘A lesson I have learned from. Tark shall be yours in a fraction of the time.’

‘For a fraction of the loss?’

Drephos paused as though considering. ‘Imperial losses? Almost certainly. Tarkesh losses? Alas no, but in war one must always anticipate a little destruction, mustn’t one?’

He then went on his limping way, and Alder knew the man was fully aware of the stares of hatred he attracted, the narrowed eyes and curses from the other men. Aware, and enjoying it.

Later, Alder permitted himself a visit to the Daughters. They had lashed three long tents together end to end and the wounded were crammed into them shoulder to shoulder. There were Wasps here, and Ants from Anadus’s contingent, a few of the Bee-kinden engineers and a couple of Fly messengers who had been just plain unlucky. He caught the eye of Norsa, the most senior Daughter here, looking tired and drawn. She and her coven had been labouring all night, bandaging the lucky and holding the hands of the rest. It would do no good, he knew, to insist she took the Wasp wounded in first. The Daughters made no distinction between kinden, just as they accepted into their ranks any penitent who showed herself willing to serve. Norsa had all kinds here to help her, from across the Empire and beyond.

They exchanged a look, he and Norsa, that was familiar to both of them, and then he turned to that part of his duty that he felt signified a true officer: to walk amongst the wounded, to acknowledge their whimpers and cries