Adrian Tchaikovsky - The Air War

‘Loose!’

And the snapbows of her maniple’s first three ranks raked into the enemy even as they touched down. She saw a good number fall — taken in that moment when landing stripped them of their speed. The rest were shooting back, but they were outnumbered now and, at some word from their sergeant, they took wing and put more distance between themselves and their enemies, waiting for reinforcements that would surely be with them at any second.

The other squad of Airborne had landed mostly intact between the two maniples, intending to take the enemy in the flanks, but those tough little square formations of the Companies had no flanks. Instead, the soldiers on that side were already facing towards them, three ranks deep and shielded by the pikes, and the same reception was waiting for them from the maniple to their other side.

The Collegiate snapbowmen were only given time for a single volley into them, catching the Wasps already returning to the air, recognizing an indefensible position when they saw it. A moment later, Straessa could see that the initial rush of the Airborne was pulling back all the way along the line, and then the three whistle blasts went up again from somewhere, and they were on the move.

General Tynan travelled at the heart of his army, at the apex of a small phalanx of armoured automotives, but in the open back of one so that his messengers could come and go as swiftly as possible. The conflict was widespread, and from the ground he had no clear picture of what was happening. He relied on his Fly-kinden and the swiftest of the Wasps to bring him news.

A Wasp soldier dropped in front of him now, one cheek smeared with blood. ‘First contact with the Airborne, sir. Our men driven back. Casualties light to moderate.’

‘How do their formations conduct themselves?’

‘They can fight on all sides, sir,’ the soldier reported — a man who had only moments ago been involved in that same skirmish. ‘They’re not so packed together as to give the best target, but their spears and their shot make closing with them difficult.’

‘Our own spears are closing on them?’

‘And they’re still advancing towards us. They seem decently armoured — medium infantry at least, and reasonably drilled.’

Tynan glanced across to his guest, Mycella, who likewise kept a flock of airborne spies at her beck and call.

‘I need some of your skirmishers,’ he told her.

She smiled at him, and he read there fondness and a certain anticipation of bloodshed. Spiders had never held back from the strike, when it counted.

‘What orders should I give them?’

‘Our medium infantry blocks are about four times as big as theirs, so we’ll be engaging several of their squares to each of our own units.’ The strategy fell into place in his mind even as he spoke. ‘If we can separate them further from each other that will give us a chance to surround them and destroy them individually, but as they are now, the space between each square is a killing ground for them.’

‘And you want my skirmishers to step into it?’

‘Send your mercenaries, if you want. I’m hoping that these Collegiates won’t hold their calm once we have them in a packed melee. Let your people push some of their squares together, break others further apart. Then let our superior order tell.’

He could give her no orders, of course, but she considered the matter and then gave a string of concise commands to one of her people, to be carried to the mercenaries’ adjutant, Morkaris.

The Wasp scout returned to the sky, winging back towards the front to report on the clash of lines, whereupon Tynan beckoned another over.

‘Send to Colonel Mittoc,’ he directed. ‘Have him keep a close measure of the range to Collegium’s walls. We don’t need to reach the city; we only need to be close enough. Have him get the best use out of these greatshotters we’ve been given.’

The man saluted and was gone, heading for the rear. Even as he did a Fly-kinden took his place.

‘Sir, enemy automotives flanking us.’

Tynan stood up, shading his eyes and peering over to where the Fly directed, seeing only flashes of the sun reflecting off metal at the far edge of his force. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Making inroads, sir. They’re a mongrel lot but they’re all armed. Our troops there are trying to hold them, but we’re taking losses from their artillery and their wheels.’

‘Where are the Sentinels?’ Tynan growled.

Amnon’s automotive bounced and rattled over the scrubby ground in the vanguard of a great straggling wedge of machines that had coursed its way almost unopposed down one side of the Second Army. The enemy had not known what to do with them — and they were gone before any orders could be given. A steady drizzle of opportunistic snapbow bolts and arrows had banged and rattled off the automotives’ sides, and at least one machine had slewed to an halt, its driver hit, but Amnon’s wing of the mechanized assault was almost untouched so far.

They were turning now, beginning to drive in towards the marching formations, and at the same time the Imperial soldiers were mustering their response. He saw units turning to face the Collegiate machines, kneeling or standing with massed snap-bows levelled, but beyond he could see Light Airborne gathering above.

He heard three whistle blasts, keening over the roar of the engines, two short and one long, meaning Charge. Beside him, the artificer manning the smallshotter swung the weapon ahead, squinting through the slot in the metal plate someone had bolted onto the engine to cover her. Amnon took up his own snapbow, though his hands itched for his sword hilt.

‘Down!’ advised the driver, and at the same time they scavenged a burst of speed from somewhere, wheels leaping over the uneven land as they rushed the enemy line. Thus, on both sides, an uneven arrowhead of ramshackle machines were turned into a hammer to crack open then Second Army’s flank.

Amnon had been knocked back by the sudden acceleration, and so he was already out of the way when the snapbow lines loosed. In his mind, the sound was like a sudden squall of rain against the metal plates shielding the vehicle. He saw the low-set automotive to his left suddenly swing towards him, its driver dead at the stick, and a moment later it had flipped over entirely, bouncing and jumping enough to fling out the bodies of its crew.

‘Watch the skies!’ he roared, as loud as he could, but the chances were that nobody heard him over the roar of the machines and the incoming hail of a second snapbow volley. A moment later the Imperial line broke, the soldiers trying to get out of the way of the metal tide. Most had left it too late. They were armoured too heavily to fly, so it became a matter of sheer chance whether they were struck or passed by, buffeted to the ground.

Amnon stood up again, unwisely, but he needed to see what was going on. Over there were the transporters, but they were too far, too deeply buried within the enemy, and the Airborne were coming down. He shot upwards, killing his target neatly, but knowing that he had no time to reload. A moment later his sword was clear of its scabbard, and the Wasp stooping down on him, blade drawn back and off-hand blazing, was cut from the air as soon as he came within reach. All about Amnon, the Airborne were trying desperately to drop onto the automotives, and some even managed it while others missed, either left behind or — for the luckless — caught in front of the rushing machines.

Nevertheless, they were taking their toll. Taking stock for just a moment, Amnon saw at least four machines had gone off course or halted, falling instant prey to the Wasp landbound infantry.

He hacked at another man that came for him, but the Airborne soldier veered out of reach, only to take a snapbow bolt in the back and tumble away — Amnon never knew whether the shot had come from his own people or the Empire. Nobody was doing well out of a skirmish fought at this speed. Then there was a hollow boom audible well over the engines, and one of the Collegiate machines went from full charge to full stop within a moment, its front staved in by the fist of a leadshotter ball, its stern lifting high with frustrated momentum, until it had turned over completely.