Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

“Soldier,” I interrupt quietly, “you are relieved of command. Find your second, tell him he has been promoted, and ask him to join us. You will return to your phalanx and await further orders.”

Peddar stares at me hatefully, his whole body trembling. Then he remembers who I am and the pledge he made to obey me. He turns to leave, angry tears in his eyes. “Peddar,” I stop him. “We do this for the community. We all got into this because we cared. We won’t leave them high and dry. You have my word.”

He smiles weakly. “Thank you, Sapa Inca.”

When he’s gone, I face the villac . “They expect resistance in Cockerel Square. We should leave a couple of phalanxes to put up a fight. They need not battle to the death, just hold the Troops for half an hour, then ‘quit’ when the pressure gets too much. The Troops will hopefully stop to draw breath and secure the Square. Next thing they know, the Kluxers will be upon them. The two of them can fight all they want after that.”

“Agreed,” the villac says. “In the meantime you can lead the retreat.”

“Not me. I’ll be in Cockerel Square with my men.”

“Is that wise?” he frowns.

“The Troops will expect me. The leader of the Snakes wouldn’t desert his men at a time like this. I’ll put in an appearance, make it look genuine. Don’t worry, I have no intention of letting the Troops take me. I plan to be around when we move back in to pick up the pieces. I’ve a score or two to settle with Ford Tasso.”

“Very well,” the priest says. “We will arrange the retreat.”

“Sard,” I bark, heading for the door, “choose two of your phalanxes and join me. Make sure your soldiers are prepared for death. We want to make this look as real as possible. Some of us will have to die.”

“We’ll do what is required, Sapa Inca,” he vows, and follows me out into the night, leaving the other agitated Cobras to break the news to their Snakes.

It’s after midnight when the Troops hit Cockerel Square. Apart from myself, Sard and his phalanxes, approximately sixty gang members are here to greet them. I tried to deter the others — told them this was a smoke screen, that we would retreat, that they should disband — but although most heeded my warnings, these sixty-odd refused to give ground. They’re determined to hold off the Troops for as long as possible and inflict as much damage as they can. Cockerel Square is theirs and they’d rather die than concede it. I tell them they will die, that we’ll quit before the Troops take us, but their hearts are set on a glorious confrontation with a vastly superior foe. You can’t save those who don’t want saving.

Watching the Troops maneuver into position is a sobering sight. Three of the four platoons converge on the Square — they must be holding the fourth in reserve — blocking it off on all sides, throwing up a net of death from which there can be no escape. Their commanders deploy them expertly, covering every exit.

“We were crazy to think we could take these fuckers,” Sard says beside me. “Even if they suffered heavy losses in the fight with Davern, they’d still be too much for us.”

“Not if we hit them as guerrillas,” I disagree. “Picking at them from the sides, surprising a squadron in the dark, booby-trapping roads and buildings… we could demoralize them to the point where they’d have to strike a deal. That’s the villacs’ plan. They don’t want to replace the Troops, merely complement them.”

Without warning, someone fires a bazooka or something similarly heavyweight. Those of us at the walls scatter as the shell hits. Some aren’t quick enough and the screams of dying men are added to the shrieks of more shells and the exploding thuds of bricks and plaster.

They focus on the exterior of the Square for five long minutes, demolishing the barricades and most of the walls. They don’t lob shells into the center — they want to keep the interior intact, to use once they’ve driven us out — so that’s where we group, a hundred or so men and women, waiting for the bombs to stop and the one-on-one combat to commence.

There’s a pause when silence descends, while the forces outside mass around the new openings, awaiting the order to advance. We hurry to what’s left of the walls and prepare our defense, laying mines, picking targets, stacking rifles and pistols by our sides. I look for the commander in chief of the Troops (not to take a shot, just curious to know who Tasso replaced Frank with) and spot the distant figure of Jerry Falstaff, running the show with admirable coolness.

A minute passes. Two. The tension should be mounting but it isn’t. The Snakes are safe in the knowledge that we’ll slip away before the finish, while the others have resigned themselves to a bloody finale. Looking around, I see only warriors smiling grimly in anticipation of battle, eager for it to begin, not fearful of the deaths to come.

No trumpets or whistles sound the attack. One moment the Troops are standing to attention, the next they’re surging forward, firing as they run. We hold off the first wave, forcing them to break and retreat, but a second wave forms immediately and they rush us. We’ve no choice but to fall back, although a few sturdier — dumber — souls hold their position. They succumb to the Troops within seconds, but take a hefty number of the enemy with them.

As the Troops mount the rubble, they hit the mines we planted. The air fills with bloody, fleshy scraps of human meat and bone. They lose twenty or thirty men in the charge, but push on regardless. Seconds later the first of them clear the mines and tackle those waiting within the boundaries of the Square.

The fighting is brutal and merciless. Three or four Troops fall for every one of ours, but their commanders have allowed for that and the soldiers press on without slowing. They could have arranged a clinical takeover, subjected us to sniper fire and short, concentrated jabs, but they’re after a quick victory, perhaps motivated by the threat of the Kluxers — they’d rather not face Davern’s forces in the open.

I remain close to Sard and the Snakes, guarding the access to the underground tunnels we’ve carved out over the last few days, the holes in the net through which we’ll wriggle free. I take little part in the bloodshed. I fire off a few rounds, felling at least one soldier, but my heart isn’t in this. I have no wish to kill any of the Troops, many of whom I once served with.

I decide we’ve had enough — I’ve just seen two of my men obliterated by a grenade — and signal the retreat. Sixty seconds later, not one Snake stands in the Square, apart from myself, last to leave. I catch the eye of a surviving gangster — there can’t be more than twenty left — and bellow at him. “You can come with us if you’ve changed your mind!”

“Nah,” he laughs, waving me away. “The party’s just warming up.”

I salute him, spare the others one last glance — they’re surrounded by Troops, damned for sure — then slip down the hole. I crawl at a sharp angle until I come to a larger tunnel where I can stand. Sard is waiting for me. Once I’m clear, he sets the timer on the explosives we strung up earlier — all the entrances to the underworld are primed to blow — and we hurry to join the others.

Five minutes later we’re standing in a small room deep under Cockerel Square. The last of the bombs has detonated. We’ve staged a successful escape. I count heads — twenty-three, including myself and Sard, though two are critically injured and may not live to see the dawn. It could have been far worse.

“How many of the dozen you picked for the mission made it through?” I ask Sard quietly.

“All of them,” he answers. “I didn’t use them in the Square. I left them with orders to meet me later.”