It would, Idrian knew as he fell back several steps, be the Hawk’s undoing.
He caught the Hawk’s sword against his shield, looking for an opening that he did not find, and instead rebounded off his back leg. The push took the Hawk off guard, and Idrian forced both of their shields down enough that he could lean out over them with a head butt. The tightly curled horns on his helmet connected with the Hawk’s left cheek, and the Hawk stumbled back, spitting blood, blinded momentarily.
Idrian pulled his shield up to protect himself from another volley from the Hawk’s infantry. The Hawk was not so aware, and Tadeas’s soldiers took the opportunity to pepper him with musketfire. At least two bullets found chinks in the Hawk’s armor. The Hawk jerked twice, stumbled again, and Idrian had only to spin the grip on his sword and thrust once at the neck with the broad razorglass tip, neatly removing the Hawk’s head.
Cries of dismay went up among the Grent soldiers. Unlike their now-deceased breacher, they seemed well-trained, and they immediately fell into an organized retreat. Idrian could sense the Ironhorns moving behind him, bringing themselves up to capture this next street.
The fighting had gone like this for hours, a ferocious back-and-forth between Grent and Ossan infantry through the rows of magnificent townhouses of the evacuated Grent elite. Idrian’s armor was coated with blood and dust and the air choked with powder smoke. Directly ahead of him, less than a mile away, he could see the rising slope of Grent Hill, topped by the ducal palace, its white stone shining bright in the afternoon sun.
Idrian stared at the palace for a few moments, wrestling with his uncertainties. Would they even be able to capture it against the fierce Grent defenses? Would it really give them a shot at ending this war quickly if they did? More important, would that cinderite still be on display in the foyer for Idrian to steal?
The rest of the Ironhorns had reached him by now, securing the intersection. Mika and her engineers tore up the cobbles to create low barricades to protect against a counteroffensive. A medic paused in front of Idrian, glancing him over to make sure most of the blood on his armor belonged to someone else, then moved on to serve the soldiers wounded in the skirmish.
Idrian was lifting his shield, ready to move forward to the next street, when a whistle cut through the air – a long note followed by two short notes.
Cease the advance.
He ground his teeth, looking over his shoulder, then back again at the ducal palace. If they were to capture it today they couldn’t waste another minute. On the other hand, three clashes with the Hawk throughout the afternoon had left him exhausted. A few moments of rest would do him good.
“Are you all right, sir?” Braileer asked. He had barely left Idrian’s side all day. As before, his sword was still unblooded – the young armorer could not seem to bring himself to kill – but his hammerglass buckler was bashed to piss. Despite his obvious terror, the kid had enough of a spine to remain in the thick of things, defending Idrian’s flank with enthusiasm alone.
“I’m fine,” Idrian answered, taking an offered wineskin and having a swig. He removed his helmet and pressed the cool wineskin against his forehead, then handed it back. “You’re doing well,” he said, “but hold back another ten paces or so. The enemy will focus their fire on me, but if you make yourself an easy target they’ll take advantage of it.”
“Yes, sir!”
The two of them withdrew from the front line, looking for the reason for the order to cease advancing. They found Tadeas back a couple of hundred yards, hunkered down in a restaurant that had been gutted by Mika’s grenades less than an hour before. Most of the pieces of Grent infantry had been carted away, but Idrian spotted a powder-stained finger underneath Tadeas’s planning table as he entered.
“Why are we halting the advance?” Idrian demanded.
“Because we’ve pushed too far ahead of everyone else,” Tadeas responded. He stood over a table covered with notes, correspondence, and a hastily drawn map of the surrounding area. He appeared to be using beans – one pile of black, one pile of orange – to represent troop placements. He took a note from a messenger, dismissed the young woman, and then moved three orange beans from one end of the map to the other.
Valient, Mika’s husband, stood beside Tadeas and gave Idrian a grin. “You’re pushing damned hard today, big man. You got a fire beetle biting your ass?”
Idrian set his sword and shield against a wall and ran a hand through his sweat-slick hair. Without the extra forgeglass in his helmet to prop up his sore muscles, his legs felt wobbly and uncertain. He bit his thumb at Valient, eliciting a laugh. “Braileer, go find us some lunch.”
“It’s almost five o’clock, sir.”
“Have we eaten lunch?”
“No, sir.”
“Then find us some lunch.” Idrian waited until the armorer had gone before continuing. “I thought General Stavri wanted the palace captured by day’s end.”
“Not if it gets everyone killed,” Tadeas responded, frowning down at his bean map.
Idrian joined him. He’d spent enough years staring at Tadeas’s makeshift maps to understand it at a glance, and could see that the Ironhorns had, indeed, pushed several blocks past their allies. The operation included eight battalions – roughly four thousand infantry – and it seemed that the Grent really didn’t want to lose the ducal palace. He found a pile of orange beans just a few blocks to their west. “What’s going on here?”
“Grent roadblock,” Valient answered with a grimace. “I was just over there. The Green Jackets are getting the absolute shit kicked out of them trying to take that intersection. I sent a few squads over with Mika’s grenades, but it doesn’t seem to have made a difference. They’ve got a pretty powerful glassdancer with them. Anybody that shows their face gets eviscerated immediately. We’ve called for our own, but it could be hours before they arrive.”
“That’s what’s holding us up?” Idrian could see that the Ossan advance was contracting on that spot.
Tadeas sighed. “Sure is. Look here – the Grent are pulling back, trying to get the Ironhorns to overextend. Our spies say they’ve got reserves somewhere over here” – he gestured vaguely off the side of the map – “so if we do, we’ll get clobbered without backup.”
“But,” Valient pointed out, “if we transfer everything to reinforce the Green Jackets, those same reserves can move forward and hit us in the flank.”
Idrian walked back outside, looking down the street to where Mika and her engineers were securing the position under the watchful eye of Valient’s soldiers. For the moment, their little slice of the neighborhood was quiet. That could change at any time. Beyond their front line, the ducal palace sat up on that hill, taunting him. Should he tell Tadeas about his secret mission? He certainly couldn’t tell him the reason for the mission. “Yes, Tad,” Idrian muttered under his breath, “I’ve promised to help your nephew save civilization in order to protect my own sanity. I’m going to need you to endanger our battalion on that dubious premise.”
He thought he heard a child’s laughter, echoing as if from the other end of a deep cave. Decades ago, when the madness first manifested itself, he had initially just learned to live with it. He could, if he was paying attention, tell the difference between what was real and what was not. But it had grown apparent that it got worse over time, and doubly so during times of stress. It wasn’t until he had attacked a glassdancer that wasn’t there that he had reported his madness to a friend at the Ministry of the Legion.