Adrian Tchaikovsky - Dragonfly Falling

He had passed the camp of the Fourth Army with a brief word to General Alder, and now he was flying with his escort of soldiers over the scrubby terrain, looking for the camp of the Spider-kinden. He had a mouth full of fine words for them, and a pouch full of documents for alliance and mutual benefit. The Empire and the Spiderlands were two giants only just met, and still testing each other’s strengths. This was one of only two places where they could now see directly eye to eye. Given a choice, Haldred would have preferred the city of Solarno, with all the decadence of the Spiderlands ranged beside a vast and beautiful lake stretching beyond the horizon, but instead he had been sent out here into the wilderness, and he had to make do with what orders came his way.

Dusk was closing on him, though, and he had yet to find the Spiders. It seemed impossible, in this barren country, for two hundred men to hide so effectively, but he had been searching for some time without success.

One of his men suddenly called out something, pointing, and Haldred saw what could be a group of men sheltering within a copse of trees. This must be them, he decided, and began to descend.

He and his men landed before the trees, and approached it cautiously. There was no fire alight, no obvious splendour of tents. He stepped within the shadow of the branches, still seeing nobody and nothing there.

‘I speak for the Wasp Empire,’ he called out. ‘I have an embassy to the Spiderlands.’

‘Do you indeed?’ said a voice softly, almost in his ear. He jumped back — looking up into a pale, fierce face.

They were not Spider-kinden, after all. He was in a different net altogether.

In his tent, General Alder looked over the most recent numbers reported from his quartermasters by lanternlight. The supply situation was growing desperate. The Scorpion-kinden were slow in bringing supplies across the desert, and those caravans the Wasp-kinden themselves sent out were plagued by bandits, who were most likely the selfsame Scorpions. Wretched barbarians , Alder sneered inwardly. Give me the order and I’d have the lot of them in shackles . That order would not come in his lifetime, though, because the Dryclaw desert offered nothing the Empire wanted save a right of way, and even that meant just a quicker step than skirting it.

This interminable waiting was death to a fighting man: each long day not knowing whether the next day would see them finally march. His men had made their temporary night camp when the cursed Spiders had first been sighted. They had been here ever since, sending back to Tark for supplies over and over again. The soldiers were restive, fighting amongst themselves, grown complacent. It was very bad for discipline, but Alder was an army man to the core and he needed his precise orders.

Now at last the imperial emissary had arrived, that preening little puppet Haldred, and surely tomorrow they would take the Merro road. His men meanwhile were out of all order, growing fat and idle.

Major Maan had stepped into the tent, saluting. ‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘Any sign of that diplomat, Major?’

‘He must be staying with the Spiders, sir,’ Maan reported, in a tone of voice that suggested envy. The splendour of Teornis’s tent and servants, the womenfolk especially, had impressed him.

The Spider had moved around a lot, like any travelling noble, pitching his tent on hilltops and in hollows, now within sight of the sea, now virtually overlooking the Wasp camp. Alder did not trust him for a moment. ‘Where is he camped tonight, Major? What have your scouts reported?’

‘I’ve had no word, sir.’

Alder had sighed. ‘Well find me word, Major.’

Rather than ceding him the privacy of his own tent, Maan simply sent a soldier off for a lieutenant of the watch, and then sat down obtrusively while they waited. When the lieutenant arrived it was a blessed relief.

‘Your scouts, Lieutenant, have they reported on the Spider lord’s current dwelling?’ Maan asked him.

‘They’ve not returned yet, sir.’

Alder narrowed his eyes. ‘What, none of them?’

‘My squad has not returned, sir,’ the lieutenant repeated implacably.

‘It’s no great matter, Major, but when I ask a question I’d like an answer.’

Maan saluted and left the tent, with the lieutenant in tow. A short while later he was back.

‘General, none of the scouts has returned.’

Alder stood slowly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘No scouts have returned, General,’ Maan said, tongue licking his lips nervously. ‘I’ll let you know-’

‘But it’s dusk already,’ Alder remarked. He put his head out of his tent and then corrected himself. ‘It’s dark. You’re telling me that none of our scouts is in?’

Maan gaped at him. ‘I. I have spoken to at least half of the watch lieutenants. ’

Alder just stared at him and then went back inside his tent.

His swordbelt was hanging to one side and he went over to it and drew the blade.

At the periphery of the Wasp encampment, sentries patrolled outside a regular ring of lit torches, stopping to exchange a brief word whenever they met. They relied on the fires behind them for their night-vision, because Wasp-kinden were day creatures.

The first arrow came out of the night without warning, silent on chitin-shard fletchings, burying itself in a soldier’s neck above the line of his armour. He gaped at it, spear falling from his hand, and fell, and the two sentries nearest to him just stared.

The sound of three hundred shafts splitting the dark air was just a whisper, just a whisper, until they struck.

General Alder heard the first screams as he emerged from his tent. ‘What-?’ he started, and stopped, the words drying on his lips. He could see, through the line of tents, the torches of the west perimeter and they were winking out, and there was now a wave of darkness surging into his camp. A wave of dark bodies that could see clearly by the waning of the moon and held blackened steel in their hands.

He heard officers try to sound the alarm, to call them to the defence, but he heard none of them even finish the sentence. Arrows were slicing down around him, punching randomly through the sides of tents, or picking off men as they struggled, half-armoured or even unarmed, into the open.

‘To me!’ Alder shouted. ‘Form on me!’

‘Form on the General!’ Maan added his voice. ‘All troops form up and-’ Then he was down, clutching at an arrow that had gone so far through him it had pinned him to the ground.

There were soldiers enough, though, some in armour and some near-naked, and he saw the flashes of stings crackling into the tide of the attackers, and caught split-second revelations across their line. They were spread out, no disciplined block of troops, and he was aware of Wasps trying to form a line ahead of him, to defend him. It would not be enough, surely, though he still had no idea who was attacking his camp. The Spider-kinden, it must be.

He noticed the Ant-kinden of Captain Anadus formed up with more discipline, but they now were making a slow retreat, shields locked and manoeuvring between the tents, losing men to arrows even as they did so. If there had been more of them left from the siege of Tark then perhaps they could have made a difference, but now all that Anadus was trying to do was leave.

The invaders struck the Wasps’ half-formed line and Alder’s soldiers began to go down. He raised his blade and lunged forwards, parrying a rapier as it snaked towards him and, with a skill that belied his years, binding under the enemy thrust to drive the blade into his opponent. There was a further volley of flashes as several of his men fired their stings at once, and looking down he saw the face of a Mantis-kinden man ashen in death.