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“You intend to just abandon this place?” her father asked. “A place so many have laboured to exhaustion to build?”

“There is no purpose to it now. No further contribution it can make.”

“There are the new rockets,” Tinkerer said.

Lizanne frowned at him in bemusement. “What new rockets?”

* * *

They were lined up in a narrow brick shelter which had been constructed well away from the other buildings. Exactly three hundred in all, looking to Lizanne’s eyes like a miniature version of the rockets that had served them so well at the Grand Cut. Each was about a yard long and ten inches in diameter. They had a smooth bullet-shaped steel warhead and a pair of aerofoils positioned halfway along their length with another larger pair at the base.

“It occurred to me that one of the Red drakes’ advantages is their ability to attack in a massed formation,” Tinkerer explained. “Rather like a swarm of bees overwhelming a larger threat. It seemed reasonable to combat one swarm with another.”

“‘Swarmers,’” Tekela said, sinking to her haunches and running a hand along the smooth casing of the nearest rocket. “That’s what we’ll call them.” Lizanne detected an unfamiliar tone to Tekela’s voice. It had a low, hungry note to it Lizanne didn’t like. Nor did she like the sight of the bone-handle knife Tekela now wore strapped to her calf.

“Appropriate,” Tinkerer said with a small shrug. “Each rocket contains a mechanism that compels it to follow a random course towards its target. When fired in a group they can be set to explode at slightly different intervals.”

“So,” Tekela said, smiling a little, “they might dodge one but the next one gets them.”

“Quite so,” Tinkerer confirmed. “The materials and components required to construct another five hundred have been set aside. It’s just a matter of assembly.”

“How long?” Lizanne asked.

“Two days with sufficient hands.”

“I’ll see to it. Have them loaded when ready. These”—she gestured at the completed Swarmers—“will be fitted to the aerostats and made ready to fire immediately.”

* * *

Viewed from the air the plain below Gadara’s Redoubt resembled one-half of a huge dartboard. Three continuous lines of trenches curved around the northern flank of the ridge from one end of the isthmus to the other. Dust rose in thick clouds from the people at labour on the plain, Lizanne seeing the rise and fall of many shovels as she landed the Firefly within the arc of the third trench line, the other larger aerostats coming to earth a short distance away.

“It worked at Carvenport,” Arberus explained after Lizanne had climbed down from the gondola.

“Against the Corvantines,” she said. “Not the drakes and the Spoiled.”

“It might have if we’d had the numbers. This is an excellent defensive position. We can place the bulk of our muzzle-loading cannon along the walls of the Redoubt itself. From there they can reach any part of the battlefield. Plus, the whole trench network is within range of the fleet’s guns. I wouldn’t even consider an attack here given the likely butcher’s bill.”

“Morradin would,” Lizanne pointed out. “And I doubt the White cares about casualties amongst its troops.”

Arberus gave a short nod of agreement. “True, but in any case I thought our object was to hold them, not defeat them.”

“At this juncture, I’d be happy with any outcome that didn’t involve our utter destruction.” She went on to relate the full scale of the calamity at the Mount, noting how he managed to keep any reaction from his features as he took in the news. It wouldn’t do for an onlooking soldier to see their general succumb to despair.

“No more munitions,” he said, speaking softly and pasting a bland smile on his face.

“The final consignment is on its way. Another thirty Thumpers and fifty Growlers, plus a hundred of the new carbines. The Mount Works Militia and a volunteer contingent will accompany the consignment, five thousand strong.”

“All very welcome. But it’s not enough.”

“I know.”

She noticed Tekela standing a short way off, eyes fixed on the plain beyond the trenches. They had given Jermayah as much of a funeral as they could before leaving the Mount. The headland east of the town had become an impromptu graveyard, marked with numerous freshly excavated graves. Tinkerer and Professor Lethridge came to help dig Jermayah’s resting-place. Together they laid his canvas-shrouded body in the earth and covered him over. A few of the artificers who had worked under Jermayah’s direction came to offer their respects but the crowd was not large, there being so many funerals that day. Tinkerer marked the grave with a wooden post onto which the words “Jermayah Tollermine—Technologist” had been etched in precise letters. Professor Lethridge then gave a halting, awkward eulogy, listing his colleague’s many technical achievements and thanking him for his many hours of tireless labour in service to humankind. Throughout it all Tekela had said nothing, staring fixedly at the mound of earth, eyes red in the pale mask of her face. She pulled her hand away when Lizanne tried to take it and had maintained much the same demeanour since.

“It was a long flight,” Lizanne said, moving to her side. “You should get some rest.”

Tekela ignored her, turning to Arberus. “How long until they get here?”

He paused a moment before replying, frowning as if not quite recognising the face of a girl he had known since infancy. “Two days, at most,” he replied. “The Spoiled march with an annoying swiftness.”

“We should attack now,” Tekela said, her gaze switching to Lizanne. “With the aerostats. We can test out the Swarmers. Might slow them down a bit.”

“We need to conserve our resources,” Arberus said.

“Sirus is their leader, isn’t he?” Tekela persisted. “If we can find him . . .”

“Your uncle’s right,” Lizanne said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The Swarmers will have more effect if they come as a surprise.”

There was a faint echo of the old pout in Tekela’s expression then, but what had once been the frustration of a spoilt child was now something far more disconcerting. “He needs to die,” she whispered, voice rich in both sincerity and certainty. “And I need to kill him.” She turned and stalked away, muttering, “And he’s not my fucking uncle,” at Arberus.

“She feels guilty,” Lizanne explained. “About Jermayah.”

“There’s plenty of guilt to go around,” he said. “If the history of this crisis is ever written I suspect it might well be called ‘The Guilty Age.’ The corporations, the Empire . . . the revolution. No one in this world has clean hands any more. Perhaps that’s why it falls to us to save it.”

* * *

True to Arberus’s prediction the White’s army appeared on the northern horizon by the evening of the following day. At first it was just a rising cloud of dust, the dark specks of patrolling Reds wheeling above, but the neat ranks of advancing Spoiled soon resolved into focus through the lens of Lizanne’s spy-glass. The army proceeded along a southerly route parallel to the trench works, stringing out in a line a mile long before coming to an abrupt simultaneous halt and turning to face the Redoubt.

“A good two hundred yards out of range,” Arberus muttered in frustration, tracking his binoculars along the enemy line.

They stood atop the tower, Lizanne’s Spider loaded with one of her few remaining vials of Blue. Whereas they had decent but not copious stocks of the other colours, especially Red thanks to the assault on the Mount, Blue was a fast-diminishing resource. Those Blood-blessed not allocated to one of the aerostats were seeded throughout the trench works and the fleet. They had been instructed to imbibe Blue the moment the enemy began to advance, enabling Lizanne to relay the orders which would co-ordinate the defence.