Some of the others were making their attack runs, but Taki took this chance to pass over and circle back, because they had a mission, and they had to get it right.
Colonel Mittoc looked up into the suddenly busy sky. All around him soldiers were lifting into the air, as though their Art wings or their little stings could make any difference at this point. Behind him were the greatshotters, mostly complete now thanks to the practised skill of his engineers, within range of the Collegiate walls, and ready to bring the city to its knees. He had been looking forward to using them.
The first bomb landed far to his left, tearing open a handful of tents and rather more soldiers. With an artificer’s appreciation he noted the way the Collegiates had adapted their vessels’ landing gear as a bomb cradle. He estimated that these charges were about half the power of the devices dropped on Collegium itself, the delivery system makeshift, and the small orthopters almost crippled by the weight.
It hardly mattered. The Collegiates had the sky. Not a Farsphex was to be seen.
The Imperial artillery commander knew that this was a time for discretion rather than valour, and that he himself was standing in exactly the wrong place, but Collegiate bombs were spiralling down all over the camp, the pilots still unfamiliar with their new toys, so where exactly was safe?
His men were shouting, and he turned to see a lone Stormreader coming on a direct line for the greatshotters from behind. Some of his engineers were still working on the siege engines, as though completing them would somehow give the huge weapons the ability to pluck those fleet little orthopters from the sky.
We were close, he thought, and he saw the bomb released even as his wings flared. But he was wearing the heavy armour designed to protect a valuable artificer from harm, and as a result he could barely manage a hop.
General Tynan noted that the Spider-kinden were already on the move, dispersing into individual groups and falling back eastwards — not exactly a rout but not an orderly retreat either. He needed to give the order, but it stuck in his throat. This was the Second Army, the Gears, and the Gears did not stop for anything. That was the point.
He could observe the walls of Collegium through a glass. For the second time, the city seemed just an inch from his grasp.
He had ordered the Airborne into the sky, to do what they could, but there had been no battle in recent history where flying men had been able to match themselves against flying machines. His own few orthopters had been destroyed within seconds of engaging the enemy.
‘Tynan!’
He spun round to see Mycella herself fighting her way through the panicking camp. She had the emaciated mercenary Morkaris and his Scorpions shouldering Wasps out of their way, and her chief of camp, the Melisandyr, strode alongside her in gleaming plate armour, holding a shield aloft as though it would protect anyone from anything.
‘What are you still doing here?’ Tynan demanded.
‘You have to get clear. You have to order a retreat, Tynan!’ she shouted to him. To his shock, he detected real concern in her eyes: not for his army, or their chances of winning the war, but solely for him.
And she was right, and he had known that truth for several minutes now, even as his men died.
‘Sound the retreat! Head east and regroup with the Spider-kinden!’
Instantly messengers and soldiers began spreading the word, the chain of command reasserting itself. It made him weep with frustration, but there was nothing else for it. He had the superior land force, but half his artillery was smashed and the Collegiates could destroy the rest at their leisure as long as they controlled the air. Under the withering barrage of their bombing, an attempt on the walls did not bear thinking about.
‘Come on,’ Mycella urged him. He saw she had a sword out as if to fight off the air assault by hand, and the impotence of the gesture touched him.
By degrees, and still under a flagging bombardment from the Collegiate fliers, the Second Army began to retreat from Collegium.
Last to turn round were the Sentinels, which stood before the bombardment unmoved, barely dented even when the bombs fell close. Their blank round eyes stared hungrily westwards, towards Collegium, before they finally turned, with an insolent slowness, and followed after the rest of the Second.
Forty-Two
Returning to their city, the army of Collegium met a hero’s welcome. Most of them did not know what to do with it.
There were enough that just accepted what they were given — waving back, kissing the girls or boys that presented themselves, acknowledging the heartfelt thanks of the populace, but Straessa’s face remained set tight, and she saw the same look all about her.
This is a sham, she thought. We lost. If that battle had been an apprentice piece or a student dissertation, they’d have kicked us onto the street. Strong start, lacking discipline in the middle, and chaotic finish failing to prove what you set out to. All in all, shows a lack of preparation. There was fear in her heart still, from this lesson taught. They’re better soldiers, and they have a better army. We accomplished nothing save get more sons and daughters of Collegium killed.
Behind the automotive in which she rode marched the Mynans, Kymene at their head. The woman’s grim expression mirrored Straessa’s thoughts exactly.
So what the pits is everyone cheering for, eh?
And then, as she had got that far in her thoughts, she realized that many of them were not. Those at the front were the enthusiastic ones, but even then she recognized a strain in their eyes, a desperation to make this procession something worthy of celebration. They cheered and they waved, trying to find familiar faces in the exhausted ranks, and those that flung themselves forward for an embrace were those that had found one, rather than simply carried away on the tide of victory.
On all sides loomed the buildings of Collegium, the gaps and rubble like missing teeth, as raw and unfamiliar as if they’d come home to some other city altogether.
There were surprisingly few officers left, the individual commands hopelessly intermingled, When her people had formed up raggedly in front of the wreck of the Amphiophos, Straessa sought out Kymene, as did various other officers and sub-officers. She found out then that Marteus had indeed been killed just before the battle, and Elder Padstock wounded during it, though not severely. In the interim, Collegium’s army was looking to a Mynan fugitive for leadership.
Kymene appeared as though she had been awake for a tenday, watching her new subordinates through red eyes as a surgeon re-bound her injured arm.
‘Go find your people,’ she advised. ‘Go show them you’re alive. Take that opportunity.’ She coughed, grimacing as it jarred her injury. ‘Keep your weapons to hand, though, and your uniforms. Don’t get so drunk you can’t fight.’ She did not need to say, They are still out there.
That evening took Straessa, eventually, to the run-down study from which te Mosca had taught Inapt studies not so long ago. There, she glanced from face to face and realized how lucky she herself had been.
Gerethwy was there, his hand bandaged so heavily that the loss of two fingers was barely noticeable, and his calm due more to the herbal philtres they had given him than to his usual demeanour. In that he matched Raullo Mummers, who had drunk himself comatose before Straessa even arrived. The homeless artist’s face was gaunt and ravaged, finding no rest even in sleep.
Sartaea te Mosca herself, the eternal hostess, arrived late, appearing only after she had done all she could in the infirmaries. She turned up at her own door with a bloodied apron under one arm, ready for washing pending the morrow. Collegium had few Inapt doctors, so she insisted on treating patients of certain kinden when she could. The regular surgeons muttered and snorted, but her results spoke for themselves. As she arrived, Straessa found her a drink, and the Fly woman slumped down on the floor with it.