Tim Lebbon - Dawn

“There are Shantasi south of here,” she said. “Probably scouting parties, but strong.” She waved her hand, dividing her force in half. “You, fly low and fast and take them on. Clear our way through to the main force. You, fly high for Kang Kang. You know your aim once you’re there: the witch and the girl. Find them and kill them, and then we can fight the Shantasi at our leisure. But right now, that girl and witch are the priority. I know I’m sending you south on your own…and Kang Kang is no place to be. But we will be joining you there soon. Questions?”

A few warriors glanced at the dead Krote and his battered machine, and their own machines jittered like nervous horses. Some exchanged glances. But none of them spoke.

“Good,” Lenora said. She watched sternly as her Krotes took off.

“Don’t worry,” Ducianne said. “Even among Krotes there are the strong, and the weak.”

“It’s not weak to be scared,” Lenora said. An edgy silence had descended across the bulk of the Krote ground force. Some of them looked at the dead man spiked with arrows, while others made it obvious they did not want to see.

“Then what is it?” Ducianne asked.

“Sane.”

“Ha!” Ducianne rode to the damaged machine, leaned across and pushed the dead Krote from its back. The machine wandered away, aimless and leaking fluids.

“You think the Shantasi know about the girl?” Ducianne said, talking to Lenora with the dead warrior on the ground between them.

“Of course. No other reason to come this far out of Hess, other than to try to keep us away from Kang Kang.”

“Unless they’re drawing us away from New Shanti. Or sending an advance force against us. Or trying to keep the fight from their Mystic city.”

Lenora shook her head. “If they thought we were coming for them, they’d dig in at Hess. It’s the gateway to New Shanti, and it has a hundred miles of desert before it. No. They know what our target is today.”

“So now we hold back?” Ducianne’s despondency at this idea was palpable.

Lenora watched the flying machines fading into the darkness, one group climbing high, the other disappearing across the scrubland toward the Shantasi waiting in the distance. “I think not,” she said. “Let’s ride hard and fast now. What do you say?”

“I say I’ll get sick of waiting.”

The order was given and spread through the ranks, and the machines formed three attack lines. The faster machines-those with longer legs or sleeker bodies-took the outside of the front line, ready to sprint forward and enclose the enemy. The second line consisted of the heavier, slower machines, and behind them came the new transports, groaning with the mass of Noreelan dead. The army moved out with Lenora at the head, brandishing a sword in each hand, proudly displaying the wounds of every one of her three hundred years, whispering to a voice that nobody else could hear.

Sometimes, that voice spoke too loud. Is this it? it said. Is this the life I missed? Killing and blood? Mother, maybe they were right to purge me from your body. Maybe they knew what you would become.

Lenora shouted to drown out the voice, but nothing could silence her thoughts.

O’GAN PENTLE STOOD within a circle of small rocks and, in an effort to calm himself, breathed in Janne pollen from the crumpled bloom in his pocket. He already knew the Krotes were on their way; the lookouts he had sent north had engaged an advance force and returned with the news. It was the manner of the Krotes’ destruction that caused O’Gan’s nerves to fray.

The lookouts had hardly been touched. They lost one of their number when a Krote machine fell on her, but other than that, their involvement had been merely to ensure the Krotes were all dead. Serpenthals had done the rest.

“Huge!” one of the Shantasi had said when describing them. “The largest I have ever heard of, let alone seen.”

They must have come out of the desert, O’Gan thought, feeling the Janne pollen settle his nerves. He opened his mind to visions, but none came. He was not surprised; the plant had been on the verge of death when he picked its bloom. Followed us, perhaps. Or led the way. But he had never heard of a serpenthal appearing outside the Mol’Steria Desert, certainly not one of the size his warriors had reported.

“Took the first machine apart,” the Shantasi said. “The Krote on its back was sliced in two. And then the rest…”

And now O’Gan breathed in stale pollen and prayed to absent visions that the serpenthals would act again. The Krotes they had destroyed were a small advance party, nothing more. There would be hundreds more on their tails. Perhaps thousands. And now surprise had gone.

“One escaped,” a warrior had said. “The serpenthals seemed unconcerned. We put arrow after arrow into him, but he rode away upright.”

The Krotes knew that the Shantasi were here, waiting for them, in exactly the right place. And O’Gan had little doubt that the full force of their attack would come soon.

He closed his eyes, reached out and pulled the circle of stones closer to him. They were meant to represent the unity of thought-back at the Temple they’d had the Janne plants themselves-but they were not working. “Because I’m the only one.” He suddenly felt more alone than ever before.

“MYSTIC,” A VOICE whispered. “They’re coming.”

O’Gan opened his eyes and stared into the frightened face of a young warrior. She bowed her head slightly, glancing down at the rocks set around his knees.

“How many?”

“Maybe fifteen, by air.”

“High or low?”

“Low. The spartlets?”

“Yes, the spartlets.” O’Gan stood quickly, brushed himself down and followed the young Shantasi out onto the plain. He passed dozens of Shantasi, all of them hunkered down on the ground, hiding themselves within its natural folds and creases. Some of them were gathered around piles of dried wood, nursing flame-sticks. The Krotes knew that they were coming up against an army. What O’Gan could only hope is that they did not know what this army had at its disposal.

“Let them make one pass,” O’Gan shouted. “Give them confidence. That way they’ll come much lower the second time.”

“Mystic,” the warrior said, looking away. She knew what the first pass would entail, and so did O’Gan. War is sacrifice, he thought. One of the Elder Mystics had told him that, before sacrificing himself at the first sign of war.

The warrior cupped her hands to her mouth. “Spartlets!” To their left and right a hundred fires came alight, and soon after the first small flames licked skyward there came a frantic clicking sound, like a thousand sticks being whipped at the air and broken at the same time.

O’Gan drew his sword and knelt. The fires made the darkness before them more complete. He did not see the flying machines until they were almost upon them.

“Not yet!” he shouted. The whistling, crackling sounds continued, louder than before, and more frenzied. After this first run, he thought. And the Krotes’ attack began.

The Mages’ fifteen warriors flew their machines low across the plain. They had already passed over the first few hundred Shantasi before they realized they were there, but then the shooting began. Arrows sleeked down in the dark, fired by the Krotes and ejected from holes and slits in their machines. Many wasted themselves on the ground, but a few found targets, and grunts and screams rose up across the plain. Discs whistled through the air. One machine gushed fire, a long slick that lit up the scene, flames dancing as Shantasi ran with hair and clothing burning. Their screams melted away with their lungs. Another came lower than the rest, trailing a dozen long chains adorned with hooks that bounced from rocks and stuck in soft bodies. Three Shantasi were picked up and carried away, their bodies jarring along the ground and leaving smears of blood. Others jumped out of their way, many using Pace to make sure they were not knocked aside by their own dead or dying friends.