Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Scarab Path

He could not hear them charge but he felt it, even as he frantically charged his snapbow, hoping its mechanism had survived the fall. Amnon lurched to his feet, too far and too late now to hold the breach. Totho saw the Scorpion vanguard surge forward, the surviving Royal Guard trying to form up against them.

His sight of them was suddenly half blocked by a wall of black metal. Something impossibly huge surged forth to meet the Scorpions, armoured head to foot in black, with a shield the size of a door, and propelled by an irresistible momentum. Meyr was entering the battle, wielding in one hand a spiked bludgeon that had been made for a strong man to hold in both. Totho actually saw one Scorpion warrior switch abruptly from slavering charge to a frantic halt, as the colossal metal warrior rose in front of him and the weighted mace came sweeping down.

The Empire had long known that Mole Cricket-kinden were superb labourers, craftsmen, miners and porters, but also that they were poor warriors. Their huge strength was a slow strength. An insect of their size could have moved like water and lightning in the fray, but they themselves were weighted with clumsy flesh and bone. Their first strike would shatter armour and bodies, but skilled soldiers would slip within their reach and be bathing in their blood before they could strike again.

The Iron Glove had cured that deficiency. The Scorpions struck at Meyr with their greatswords and their axes. They were strong, fierce warriors but Meyr was armoured in aviation-grade steel layered three times over. As the Khanaphir spears jabbed past him from either side, the Mole Cricket simply stood in the front line and smashed every Scorpion he could reach — and his reach was long. They were still coming from behind their fellows, crushing together, so he could not miss. The warriors in the fore were soon fighting against their comrades, trying to get out of his way. After Meyr smashed his mace apart he snatched a Scorpion halberd, and then one of their five-foot swords, striking so hard with it that he bent the blade.

They surged and pushed at him, trying with sheer numbers to drag him down. Something was dancing about his shoulders now, and Totho experienced a moment of confusion before he could work out what it was.

It was Teuthete the Mantis. As though she weighed nothing, she was crouching on the shifting pauldrons of Meyr's armour, shooting down into the Scorpion throng. She danced in time with him, used him as her personal platform, swaying contemptuously aside from the crossbow bolts that sought her.

Amnon was beside them next, hacking with his sword at any Scorpion who managed to escape Meyr's onslaught. Totho knew that he should join them up there and put his snapbow to use, but he just watched and watched in awe as that impossible trio and the Khanaphir soldiers turned back the tide, killing with skill and fervour and monstrous brute strength, until even the Scorpions lost their taste for bloodshed and fell back under the constant rain of arrows.

Totho felt exhausted, beaten black and blue, and he had not so much as struck anyone with his fist. Another squad of the diminishing Royal Guard had come forward to seize the breach. Meyr, when he turned round, was painted red, coated with what he had made of the Many of Nem. The giant sat down on a fallen stone, knees up at chest level. He pushed back his helm and inhaled breath in vast lungfuls.

'Well done,'Totho commended him.

'We're … not done yet,' Meyr panted, between breaths. 'Have you seen how many of them there are?'

'I know.' Totho laid a hand on his shoulder, such a tiny gesture in comparison. Some of the Khanaphir had come forward with water, and they began to clean the Mole Cricket's armour as though it was a sacred honour for them.

It was noon, or so the sun said. They had held the Scorpions at bay for half a day.

'Tirado!' he shouted out, realizing that he had not seen the Fly-kinden for much of the fight. His call was immediately followed by the small figure landing beside him. 'Where in the wastes have you been?' he snapped.

'Keeping myself out of trouble, chief,' the Fly said. 'You wanted?'

'Go to the Scriptora. Find … find Maker, the Collegiate ambassador, and tell her … Tell her I want to see her. Ask nicely-' He stopped, on seeing figures approaching from the east shore. 'Never mind. Wait on.'

They were Khanaphir civilians, carrying baskets of food for the soldiers, but among them strode a tall woman with a full head of hair. Even as Totho recognized her, Amnon strode past him with arms outstretched. It was Rakespear, the Collegiate scholar, who threw herself against his breastplate, and then stepped back to stare.

'My life, look at you,' she said. 'You look like a sentinel.'

'If you say so.' Amnon managed a tired grin. 'Thank Totho for it. It's saved my life already.'

'Then I do thank him.' Praeda Rakespear nodded to Totho briefly. 'How is the defence?'

'Too early to say. They'll come back,' said Amnon. The food was being distributed among the defenders, and Totho found a cloth-wrapped parcel pushed into his hands. Being used to Solarnese cuisine, which was spicy and hot, he had found Khanaphir food too bland or subtle for his taste. Just then he was hungry enough to eat anything.

'Mistress Rakespear,' he said, 'is Che … is Mistress Maker …? I was wondering if she would come here, to speak with me.'

'Che?' Praeda frowned at him. 'Do you know where she is?'

Totho stared. 'Is she not with you? With you and the old man?'

'Nobody seems to have seen her since yesterday,' Praeda told him. 'I've asked the Ministers, but they don't seem to understand. She's gone missing before. She … she's not been acting rationally.'

'Tirado,'Totho ordered. 'Go and find her.'

'Right you are.' The Fly bolted whatever he was eating, and lifted off into the sky, wings glittering, heading across the river towards the east. Totho grimaced. That bloody woman can't keep out of trouble to save her life , and then, But am I really in a position to judge her?

He found a flat space of stone away from the locals and set to eating as quickly and efficiently as possible, so as not to be interrupted.

Someone sat down beside him. He started in surprise and looked up to see one of Amnon's Guard, a woman ten years his senior, her scaled armour streaked with blood. A younger man sat on the far side of her, his helm removed, his bald head gleaming. Totho regarded them both cautiously.

'I am Dariset,' the woman announced, before biting into the hunk of bread they had given her.

'Ptasmon,' said the man.

'Halmir, me,' said another man appearing on the far side of him. There were soon quite a few gathered, sitting on stones or the ground, in a loose circle that now included him.

'Totho,' he said awkwardly, 'of Collegium.'

'You have done much for us, Totho,' Dariset said. 'Much that you did not need to.'

And to please a woman who won't even turn up and witness it , he thought, but he just nodded noncommittally.

'We are honoured that you and your giant and your people fight alongside us, Totho,' said one of the others, and something clicked inside Totho, as he thought, This is the first time that any of them, save Amnon, has called me something other than 'Foreigner' . He looked into their faces, the faces of simple, hardworking people who were prepared to die for their city. This is something that Drephos never did. He never knew the names of his soldiers. He would never have cared .

It was a terrible trap, though. They would die, he knew. Perhaps even today. Perhaps in an hour's time or less, Ptasmon would be writhing in agony with his gut ripped open by a Scorpion halberd, or Dariset would lie still with a crossbow bolt through her eye. In knowing their names, in making them real people and not components of a machine, he was baring his flesh for the lash. They are meat for the war machine , he tried to remind himself but, sitting there with them, it came hard.