Dragonfly Falling (31 page)

Basila and her few made
quick work of the airship guards. One Ant-kinden was already shinning up the
ropes to the first gondola. For a moment Salma wondered why they didn’t just
cut the cords and let the buoyant machines blow away with the wind, but when he
caught Basila up he saw that the lines were twisted steel, three fingers thick
and sunk who knew how deep into the ground. Destroying the gondolas themselves
was the only option left to them.

An energy bolt crackled
past him, signifying that there were more Wasp soldiers on their way. He flung
himself into the air, almost by instinct, and met a Wasp coming the other way.
Salma grappled with the man as the two of them spun in the air before stabbing
the Wasp and letting him drop to the ground.

The Ant crossbowmen were
loosing bolts again, but they were being rushed as they did so. Two or three of
the Wasps went down, some shots went wild and shields took others. For a moment
Salma swung in the air, torn between either helping Basila destroy the airships
or aiding Totho. Then he was arrowing down, sword first. Totho had his own
blade drawn, crouched low as a Wasp thrust at him with a spear. Salma landed on
his feet behind the spearman, thrusting his blade straight into the man’s back.
He met Totho’s eyes for a moment, and then the halfbreed artificer took up his
crossbow again, and immediately Salma sprang into the air.

He had been noted, now,
so he twisted and spun to dodge a scatter of sting-shot directed at him, and a
couple of crossbow bolts as well. A sweeping glance saw Basila’s people moving
over to the next airship, and he soared in beside them.

‘Faster!’ he urged.

‘We can’t do this
faster.’ She was climbing a rope even as she said it.

‘Can I help?’

‘Can you carry me –
flying?’

He shook his head. ‘The
bombs . . . Is it so . . . ?’

‘You are not Apt,’ she
told him, dragging herself over the gondola’s side. Two soldiers ran at her
immediately, but she had already taken up her crossbow and stopped one with a
bolt before he was even halfway towards her. The other’s hand spat a dart of
gold fire that she sidestepped, and then Salma caught him by one of his
armour-straps while Basila ran him through.

She looked across the
deck, picking the best spot for the explosive. Salma went to the rail, looking
out over it, and his heart sank. There were more soldiers coming, fast. The
Wasps had mobilized much more quickly than they should have done. ‘I don’t
think your distraction worked,’ he commented.

There was a flight of at
least three score enemy heading for the airships. Clearly the Wasps had
second-guessed them.

Basila was now kneeling,
setting the bomb by clicking at something. A clockwork fuse, Totho had said,
but it meant nothing to Salma.

‘We don’t have much
time,’ he hissed. She ignored him still, patiently aligning the mechanism.

The first Wasps were at
the rail even then. Salma cried out something wordless and half-ran, half-flew
at them, stabbing the leader, driving him to the deck of the gondola. He then
slashed up at the next man that he sensed was about to stab him in the back,
catching the Wasp across the face. Two more were on him instantly but the sound
of fighting behind him heartened him no end. Basila must have finished and they
had not caught her unprepared.

They drove him back, and
soon two became four, and then he had to take to the air to avoid being
surrounded. They followed but he was swifter, skipping past their blades and
bolts and leaving a trail of blood whenever he got within sword’s reach. He had
wheeling glimpses of Basila still fighting on the deck, unable to flee but
giving a good account of herself.

The plan had failed. He
knew he should now find Totho and try to get both of them out and away from the
camp and away from Tark. He knew that he could not abandon Basila, though. With
a tight loop in the air he lost the two men still pursuing him, and dashed back
for the airship.

Can
you carry me?
she had asked, but he could not. Not upwards, not even
sideways . . .

He screamed as he
stooped on them, catching one man in the back hard enough for him lose his grip
on the sword. Then he had scattered them, just as Basila finished one more off.
With no time for explanations he caught the surprised woman about the waist and
ran with her to the rail. He kicked off.

Totho had run out of
places to go. As the least bold of the band of saboteurs, so he was nearly the
last. Only he and one more Ant remained, and there were now Wasps everywhere.

The Ant loosed his
crossbow, bringing down another opponent, but then the enemy were on them
again, at sword’s length, and Totho stumbled back while the Ant engaged them.
Though a skilled swordsman, they mobbed him and, although several of them fell,
one of them drove a blade down into his neck, almost to the quillons.

And Totho raised the
crossbow his automatic hands had reloaded, and emptied it into them. He saw
three men punched back by the power of it as he raked it in an arc across them.

Totho jammed another
magazine into the weapon. He was now almost at the camp’s edge, and beyond that
scattered perimeter of lights lay escape. Surely they could not follow him very
far at night. He took another few steps back, raised the crossbow again and
pressed the trigger as the closest soldier was almost within arm’s reach.

It jammed, and he heard
a crack as the shaft of the bolt shattered under the stress. A moment later a
Wasp sword was arcing down on him. He held the bow up, cringing, and the enemy
blade embedded itself in the weapon, severing the string and sticking itself hopelessly
amidst the workings. As Totho let go the snarling Wasp soldier hurled sword and
bow away from him. Then he and two of his fellows were wrestling Totho to the
ground.

Totho was strong, but so
were these professional soldiers of the Empire. One of them struck him in the
face hard enough to rattle his teeth. A moment later, groggy, he was being
hauled upright to see the gleam of a sword being drawn back to strike.

‘Save him!’ a voice
snapped, and Totho looked blearily into the face of an angry man with a
bloodied scalp – an officer who, for all the wrong reasons, had just saved his
life.

A moment later a sword
pommel connected expertly with the back of his skull, and he remembered nothing
more.

It was the kick, more
than his wings, that cleared the rail for Salma, and then he was putting all
his strength into flight as the burden in his arms dragged him back towards the
hungry earth. If she had struggled they would both have been lost, but she
clung to him tight and they dropped awkwardly in jolting stages until they
found the earth.

‘We have to go!’ he
said, snatching up the first discarded sword he found. When she looked at him
all he could see were her eyes, but he thought that she was smiling at him.

‘How?’ she asked, and
then they were both on their feet, fighting back to back. There were a dozen of
the enemy trying to get at them in their eagerness to finish it. Salma laid one
Wasp’s arm open and then cut down one of the stocky slave-kinden who was coming
at him with an axe. A Wasp spearman drove the weapon at him, and Salma lunged
forwards along the shaft to stab the man in the ribs. When he fell back again,
Basila was no longer there.

He felt a single stab of
hurt, but he knew that unless he did something quickly he would be just a
corpse lying beside hers. His wings exploded from across his shoulders and he
launched himself upwards. The enemy were following him and he was growing
weary, his Art starting to falter. He landed again and spun round to face them,
cutting the first one down even as the man touched ground. They were hanging
back now, and he threw himself aside as they began launching their stings, each
bolt of golden fire briefly lighting the night.

He turned and ran,
looking for Totho but seeing only more of the enemy. He soon found himself
deeper amidst the tents, always on the move, running up against little knots of
Wasp soldiers and slashing at them frantically, making them scatter.

One pack did not budge,
however and he slammed straight into them, losing his second sword. He cracked one
in the head with his elbow, rammed his knee into another’s stomach. The third
man grabbed him, tugging at his arming jacket, but Salma punched him in the
face, snapping his head back. Pain burned across his back like the lash of a
whip: a sting-blast had scorched him and he reeled, falling to one knee.

He leapt up instantly,
wings searching for the sky, but someone grabbed an ankle and dragged him down.
Even as he was yanked backwards a bolt of light split the air where he would
have been flying. He lashed out blindly with hands and feet but they were all
around him now and he met resistance with every blow.

A sword glinted nearby
and he grasped the wrist that held it, bringing the swordsman’s arm down across
his knee with an audible snap. Then the blade was in his own hand. They were
furious now, mad for blood, but so was he. He killed the two of them closest to
him with brief, brutal moves of the sword.

Another sting-shot
flared past him as he ran. He wanted to fly but as soon as he took to the air
he would have no cover, and there would be too many shots from all sides to
dodge.

Someone grabbed for him
and the pair of them tumbled to the ground. Salma was up first, driving his
sword down into his opponent then dragging it up in desperate parry as yet another
soldier lunged at him. The force of the blow spun him round but, as he
staggered back, he managed to get back on his feet. The soldier confronting him
paused a moment, sword extended, and then went for him, and for a second they
were duelling, just as though they were in the Prowess Forum.

Then another Wasp was
close behind and Salma lashed back at him with the sword but only struck the
man across the face with the guard. The soldier in front of him took his chance
then, and Salma whipped his sword back into line to deflect the blow.

The force of the attack
knocked something out of him, the great punching blow to his stomach. Salma
gasped, and his world contracted until it contained only himself and the Wasp
soldier. No sounds, only dead silence as his sword swept round and lanced the
other man through the ribs. His opponent could not parry because his blade was
buried deep in Salma’s body.

Salma fell forwards into
the arms of his adversary, the two of them leaning on each other like
drunkards. Then Salma’s knees gave way and they toppled sideways together. For
a moment their fight was an embrace of brothers.

And darkness rose within
Salma, accompanied by a strange cessation of pain.

He was aware again of
pain, before he had any idea of where he was. The back of his head was thumping
angrily, sending tremors through his skull and into his eyes. Totho shifted
awkwardly only to discover that he was lying bound at a strange angle in some
peculiar kind of chair.

Growing awareness
swiftly furnished his last reliable memory: the night attack. Was it still
night? His eyelids told him it was dark, yet he could hear the slightly muffled
murmur of a waking world beyond. He was in a Wasp tent.

And tied. He remembered
what Che had said, about the torture devices the Wasps had kept in Myna. And
that would explain the uncomfortable contours of the chair he was lashed to,
its cold metal.

As well as most securely
bound, he was stripped to the waist, and when he flexed his body
experimentally, he felt the tug and pull of bandages, over rows of surgeon’s
stitches.

And from somewhere close
above him, a female voice stated, ‘I think he is awake.’

Totho froze into
immobility, but too late. There was no longer anything to be gained from
shamming, so very carefully he opened his eyes.

Even the dim light
within the tent sent a stab of pain coursing through his brain, but he could
just make out a blurred shape looming above him.

Something cold touched
his lips, and he twisted his head violently, ringing his skull with agony. The
woman’s voice said sharply, ‘Stop that. It is water only.’

He cautiously turned
back to press his mouth against the lip of a cup. The water it contained was so
startlingly cold that he felt there must be ice in it. A moment later a damp
cloth was put to his forehead.

He forced himself to
look properly, to make the vague shapes resolve themselves. The woman who had
spoken was young, he saw, and dark-skinned. At first he assumed she was a
Beetle, but her face was too flat, her frame too compact. Then he recalled the
slave-artificers and recognized her as of the same kinden.

‘Where am I?’ he finally
rasped, and found the ache in his head was joined by another inside his cheek.
His mouth tasted rusty with dried blood, so he must have bitten himself in the
struggle.

He saw the woman turn
and glance at someone behind her, who had not, in all this time, moved or
spoken. Merely the thought sent a shiver through him, and then she had stepped
aside, and someone else was now standing beside the strange chair. Totho turned
his head as far as the pain would allow, and saw a metal-gauntleted hand,
exquisitely worked.

The newcomer’s voice was
quiet and sly, slightly mocking. ‘In your position, young man, I would not
waste my time with unnecessary questions. What is your name, young one?’

He decided he was not
going to answer, and then the gauntlet shifted with a slight scraping of metal
and he said quickly, ‘Totho. They called me Totho.’

‘A Fly-kinden name.’ The
man sounded amused. ‘You must have been brought up in . . . Collegium, I would
guess? Well then, my own name is Dariandrephos, but the boorish Wasps call me
Drephos. Or “the Colonel-Auxillian”, of course.’