“Good. Good.” At least something has gone to plan. Glokta wanted nothing more than to slide to the floor and lie there, screaming. But there is work to do. He winced as he limped for the door. “We need to head for the Agriont immediately.”
The first traces of dawn were leaking into the cold, clear sky as Glokta hobbled out onto the Middleway, Ardee at his shoulder. There was still mist on the air, but it was fading, now. A fine day in prospect, it would appear. A fine day for bloodshed, treachery, and—
Shapes were moving in the mist, away south down the wide cobbled road, towards the sea. There were noises too. Rattling, jingling. It sounded very much like a body of armoured men on the move. Further off, someone was shouting. A bell began to clang, sullen and muffled. A warning bell.
Cosca frowned into the thinning mist. “What is that?”
The shapes grew more distinct. Armoured men, carrying spears, and in numbers. Their tall helmets were plainly not of Union design.
Ardee touched Glokta on the arm. “Are they—”
“Gurkish.” Their armour glinted in the thin, grey light as the fog drifted aside. A vast body of them, marching north up the Middleway. They must finally have landed men at the docks, broken through into the centre of the city. What astonishingly poor timing. “Back!” Glokta turned towards the alley, slipped and nearly fell, grimacing as Ardee caught him by the elbow and dragged him up straight.
“Back to the mansion!” And hope we weren’t seen already. “And keep those lamps with you, we’ll need them.” He hurried to the stinking alley as best he could, barged and jostled by Cosca’s mercenaries.
“Damn these Gurkish,” hissed the Styrian. “I don’t know for the life of me what I did to upset them so.”
“You have my sympathy.” The gate squealed shut and a couple of the mercenaries started dragging a broken fountain behind it. I’m not sure how long that will keep out one of the Emperor’s legions.
“Might I ask what the plan is now, exactly, Superior? Charming though your palace is, sitting here and waiting for relief would hardly seem to be an option.”
“No.” Glokta struggled up the steps and through the open front door. “We need to get to the Agriont.”
“Something tells me our Gurkish friends will have had the same idea. We will not be getting there overground, that is certain.”
“Then we must go underground.” Glokta limped into the guts of the building as smartly as he could, Ardee and the mercenaries following behind in a worried crowd. “There is an entrance to the sewers here. One can get all the way to the Agriont, if one knows the route.”
“Sewers?” Cosca grinned. “I like nothing more than wading through life’s filth, as you well know, but sewers can be quite… confusing. Do you know the route?”
“Actually, no.” But I know a man who says he can find a way through anything, even a river of shit. “Brother Longfoot!” he called out as he hobbled towards the steps. “I have a proposition for you!”
The Day of Judgement
Lord Marshal West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the fertile plains of Midderland, his eye-glass clutched tightly in one gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the flat autumn fields—patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim homecoming.
There was not so much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be sure of nothing.
“They must be expecting us. They must be.”
“Maybe they’re sleeping late,” said Jalenhorm, ever the optimist.
Pike was more direct. “What difference if they are?”
“Not much,” West admitted. King Jezal’s orders had been specific. The city was infested with Gurkish troops and the defences were close to complete collapse. There was no time for clever stratagems, for careful approaches, for probing the enemy for weak spots. Prince Ladisla, ironically, would probably have been as good a commander for this particular situation as anyone else. For once, circumstances called for a magnificent charge, followed closely by death or glory. The only thing under West’s control was the timing.
Brint pulled up his horse nearby, sending a shower of grit into the cold air. He swung down from the saddle and gave a smart salute. “General Kroy’s cavalry is in position on the right wing, Lord Marshal, and ready to charge at your order.”
“Thank you, Captain. His foot?”
“Perhaps halfway to deploying. Some companies are still spread out down the roads.”
“Still?”
“Muddy-going, sir.”
“Huh.” Armies left mud behind them like a slug left a trail. “What about Poulder?”
“A similar position, as far as I can tell,” said Brint. “No messages?”
Jalenhorm shook his head. “General Poulder has not been forthcoming this morning.”
West stared towards the city, that distant grey line beyond the fields. “Soon.” He chewed at his lip, already raw from his constant worrying. “Very soon. Mustn’t let fly half-drawn. When a little more of the foot comes up…”
Brint was frowning off to the south. “Sir, is that…” West followed his pointing finger. Over on the left wing, where Poulder had been gathering his division, the cavalry were already moving smartly forward.
West stared as the riders gathered pace. “What the…”
Two full regiments of heavy horse broke into a majestic gallop. Thousands of them, streaming forwards across the open farmland, surging round the trees and the scattered farmhouses, throwing up a wake of dusty earth. West could hear the hammering of their hooves now, like distant thunder, could almost feel the vibration of it through his boots. The sun glinted on raised sword and lance, on shield and full armour. Banners streamed and snapped in the wind. It was quite the display of martial grandeur. A scene from a lurid storybook with a muscular hero in which meaningless words like honour and righteousness were often repeated.
“Shit,” growled West through gritted teeth, feeling the familiar pulsing coming up behind his eyes. General Poulder had been itching to mount one of his fabled cavalry charges all across the North and back. There the harsh terrain, or the harsh weather, or the harsh circumstances had all prevented it. Now, with the perfect conditions, it seemed he had been unable to resist the opportunity.
Jalenhorm slowly shook his head. “Bloody Poulder.”
West gave a snarl of frustration, raised up his eye-glass to dash it on the ground. He managed to stop himself at the last moment, forced in a heavy breath, and slapped the thing angrily closed. He could not afford to indulge himself today. “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Order the charge, all across the line!”
“Sound the charge!” roared Pike. “The charge!”
The sharp bugle call rang out, blaringly loud on the chill morning air, doing nothing to ease West’s throbbing headache. He stuck one muddy boot in his stirrup and dragged himself reluctantly up into his saddle, already sore from riding all night. “I suppose we must follow General Poulder to glory. At a less honourable distance, though, perhaps. Someone still needs to co-ordinate this shambles.” The sounds of answering bugles further down the line floated up to them, and on the right Kroy’s horsemen began to trot forwards.