Adrian Tchaikovsky - Heirs of the Blade

This won’t last, Thalric thought and, even as he did so, a Dragonfly noble dropped down to engage Varmen, his face a fixed mask of self-control. His long-hafted sword swung three times at the Wasp in rapid succession, bounding back from breastplate, shoulder and helm, and leaving barely a dent. He made to dodge around his bulky enemy, to use that restricting helm and the weight of mail against him. Varmen turned the other way, faster than Thalric could quite believe, and flattened the attacker against his shield, wheeling again to stab the Dragonfly in the leg as the wretched man staggered. The glittering mail, the work of master armourers with a thousand years’ experience, did not stretch to protecting the inner thigh, and the nobleman went down without ceremony.

Arrows clipped from between the trees, but Thalric was running in Varmen’s shadow. The shafts sprang back from his shield or slanted from the planes of his mail, as the armoured man stomped his way forward.

Where is Che?

Three of the enemy mustered sufficient understanding and courage to attack Varmen from behind. Thalric, unseen beside the black and gold ironclad, killed one as they rushed in, the assailant arching backwards with a blackened hole in his face, for the Commonwealers had never designed full helms. Another man rammed his spear full strength into Varmen’s back without any understanding of the weak points of heavy mail. The point struck in the middle of the backplate, rather than seeking out the joints, and Varmen lurched forward a step under the impact, as the spear shaft bent and then snapped. The Sentinel swung round, his cleaving stroke knocking the third man’s blade from his hands. For a second the blank visor stared at them, and then Varmen had turned and was striding further into the camp.

And Thalric heard her call his name. Those Commonwealers had no idea about how to secure prisoners either. She was merely tied to a tree beside a rank of restless horses, not penned up, not even gagged.

‘Varmen!’ Thalric began running for her. A Grasshopper groom or functionary came dashing along the row of horses, quite possibly for purposes unconnected with the rescue, but Thalric took no chances and stung him down anyway. He heard the clatter of steel behind him and knew that the Commonwealers were regaining their dented courage, and coming in greater numbers. He dared not look back to see how Varmen fared.

There were no chains, no locks. He had his sword out, hacking at the ropes and cutting jagged gashes in the tree itself, and in a moment Che was free.

An arrow dug into the trunk just above her head, even as she slumped forward. Thalric hauled her to her feet, but she sank back on to her knees, and for a moment he thought that she had been shot.

‘Been on a horse for days,’ Che gasped. ‘No idea how sore I am.. . barely walk.’

‘You’re going to have to,’ Thalric cautioned her. ‘Running would be even better.’

She cursed as he dragged her upright again, but at least she managed to stay standing. Thalric calculated quickly, deciding the swiftest way out of the camp. True to his bad luck, the Salmae had tethered their animals safely towards the centre, and of course their prisoner too. For a moment he considered stealing a horse, but his riding skills would barely manage a sedate trot in daylight, let alone a mad gallop at night.

‘Varmen!’ he yelled again. Glancing back, he saw the armoured figure striding in the opposite direction. From here, all ways led out, and it seemed that the Sentinel’s shadow allowed room enough for a bruised Beetle girl as well as a former Rekef man.

Even as they caught up, Thalric forcing Che to keep the pace, another flurry of Commonwealers attacked. A brace of arrows bounded from Varmen’s raised shield, and then there were airborne forms about him, wheeling and darting, striking at his head and shoulders. They were trying to keep him off balance, first one attacking and then another, but it seemed as though Varmen was in another world, within his helm, and no matter how hard they made it ring, none of their feints could fool him. The Sentinel’s skill was not simply in bearing the huge burden of his mail, but in fighting with complete focus and awareness, so that the mail was no burden, the visor no restriction. As each attacker lunged downwards, Varmen was ready, taking their blows on his shield, striking back only when it was economical to do so. He brought down two of five, leaving them, crawling away bloodied on the forest floor, and he did not stop for them.

There was a voice calling out, ahead, and Che’s head snapped up at the sound.

‘That’s her,’ she whispered, and Thalric had no idea who she meant until he saw. They had somehow taken the one path that led them further in, to the absolute centre of the camp, or perhaps Varmen had been well aware of where he was going all along. There was a chaos of activity here, half-armoured Dragonflies flying back and forth, some rushing out to locate a threat that had already arrived at their doorstep, others trying to form up into some semblance of military order. In the midst of it all stood a woman in glorious armour of red and blue that reflected the firelight fiercely. She was practically shrieking orders, striking out at any of her people that came within fist range.

Princess Salme Elass, last of her line.

‘We need to get out, not in. What are you doing?’ Thalric demanded. Varmen’s entrance had been noted, and the tail end of the Imperial awe that had got them this far lashed into the assembled Commonwealers. They did not see Thalric or Che, just that one indomitable armoured form – and, behind him, all the horrors of the Twelve-year War.

‘Varmen, we have to go!’ Che called. ‘They have a Weapons-master.’

The armoured man turned briefly, helm tilting to stare over his shoulder. His sword levelled past them, indicating the direction away .

Varmen took the next sword on his shield, long-honed instincts telling him where his new foe would be even without seeing him, calculating back from the angle of strike. He brought his sword back from signalling Thalric and Che, and chopped it into the path that he knew his assailant would take, feeling a solid impact and knowing that he had caught the man somewhere unarmoured. There seemed to be a host all about him, pressing behind and on both sides, not seen, not even heard, but felt through the weight of his mail. When he now advanced, the foe fell away as though he had a regiment at his back.

Another wave of Dragonfly-kinden dared him, and broke against his shield, passing him by as though they were so many autumn leaves. He felt the impacts of their blades and spearpoints, and had they simply stood against him, probed for the weak points in his mail, then they would have brought him down in short order. They would not stand, though, and these fleeting strikes were all they were good for.

His narrow frame of reference scanned about him: noting the campfires, the running and flying enemy, the tents.

He thought he saw the black and gold banner beside him, shadowed forms in striped mail, his comrades the Sentinels, but they were not really there. They had perished at Masaki, they had died at Malkan’s Stand, they had been disbanded by an Empire that no longer had need of them.

‘Pride of the Sixth,’ he croaked to himself, and took another step.

For a moment he thought he saw the Dragonfly girl, not this chaff that was sleeting past him but the girl he had duelled so long ago, in that moment his life seemed to hinge on. When I was alive. For I was never so alive as in that moment. He thought that she smiled at him, and nodded, and then turned to go. Where I cannot follow, alas. I’d have followed her then, or had her follow me. She was a beauty and no mistake, even when she was trying to kill me. Especially then. After all, I’ve thought about doing the deed myself once or twice, after Malkan’s Stand. I can hardly hold it against her, then, can I?