At Straessa’s shoulder, her Sarnesh liaison issued flat, emotionless directions, and she passed the orders on, drawing the leading edge of her maniples back and trusting to the rest to make space, just as they’d practised.
Those orders would have originated from Tactician Milus, of course, and she was bitterly aware that he was well out of the range of the enemy engines. He was sitting in the automotive carriage he used for his headquarters, out of sight in case the enemy had sent out assassins or snipers, and yet with thousands of other pairs of eyes through which he would watch the fight unfold.
The Mantids to her left had spread out further, and she saw their far edge begin to creep round like a long, curved horn towards the enemy, inching around their flank. There were not enough Mantids that they could cause serious damage to so large an Imperial force, but their reputation preceded them. They had taken their toll on the Empire’s armies more than once, and the Imperial commander would already be trying to redeploy in case they tried one of their traditional damn-the-odds charges. Straessa reckoned those charges weren’t part of the plan for today, not given the new calm sense of purpose the Mantids seemed to display. They had diminished themselves, almost, from the killers of legend to something more like mere soldiers. But soldiers often lived, whereas killers of legend always met a tragic fate.
‘How’s the air battle going?’ she asked.
Castre Gorenn gave her an odd look. ‘Lots of machines going in all directions. You’re asking me?’
‘Someone?’ Straessa called hopefully. ‘Anyone?’
‘They’re doing their best to hold things up,’ one of her soldiers told her. ‘But we’re already trying to get some bombs on their wall, so they can’t just keep giving us the runaround – they’ll have to make a stand. I think we’re winning.’
‘Keep an eye on them.’
‘Antspider!’ someone yelled, and already the Sarnesh who stood behind her was rattling off instructions. ‘Airborne incoming. All snapbows up.’
‘Snapbows to the sky!’ Straessa shouted, ‘and get those pikes up!’ She heard the instruction passed outwards by the officer of each maniple.
Ahead of her the sky was black with Wasps. The bulk of an Imperial army was always its Light Airborne, and here there were thousands of them, a vast cloud of flying men and – and, yes, their insects too, the creatures held on a fraying mental leash by someone with the Art to speak to them. The Empire clearly didn’t intend to wait for its orthopters to be whittled away.
The Airborne boiled forwards, coming in high enough that they would be clear of enemy shot until they chose to close the range. They were like a stormcloud. Coming from the east, they blotted the morning from the sky.
‘Gorenn, give me range.’ With only one eye, Straessa knew enough to defer to the Dragonfly’s keener sight.
‘Wait . . .’ Castre Gorenn had an arrow to the string as she peered upwards. ‘Wait, now . . .’ Then her arrow was gone, the string abruptly no longer taut beside her ear even as the Wasps started to descend. And she whooped, ‘Now!’ as loud as she could.
‘Loose!’ Straessa endorsed her, but her maniple already had – and the rest were taking that as their signal. To the left, the Mantis archers had already let fly their shafts, and many of them were already taking to the skies to meet the Wasps in their own element.
The return shot came sleeting down at the same time. A bolt struck Straessa’s helm like a hammer blow and, all around her, Company soldiers were dropping, picked out from the Collegiate host more by chance than by any decision by the enemy.
‘Stretchers!’ Straessa shouted. She did not have to order a second shot, for everyone still able to was putting bolts into the Wasps as fast as they could.
Captain Bergild brought her Farsphex back towards the walls, taking as narrow a line as possible, feeling the net of her pilots spread out around her, dancing only to her tune. Of course, the Sarnesh had their own link, and she could see it in every move they made through the sky, all of their Stormreaders moving like game pieces to a single mind’s masterplan.
The Imperial Spearflights and clumsy heliopters were mostly gone already, only the best of them surviving the first savage moments of the battle. She reckoned that the Imperial craft were outnumbered three to two, and the Ant pilots were pushing furiously to get at the walls and the greatshotters.
And yet we’re holding them. Or almost. And whilst ‘almost’ wouldn’t serve in the long run, it would give time for more Imperial reinforcements to come to Capitas’s aid, whilst the Lowlanders were all here already, as far as she could work out, with no reserves to call on at all.
There were more of the Ants, but they were less experienced pilots, without the true feel for the air that an aviator needed. Worse, their mindlink kept them in contact with their forces on the ground. Whoever was giving the orders was not doing so with a pilot’s eye. Bergild and her people could improvise, lead them, fool them. She was pulling out all of her tricks for this battle, because what else had she been saving them for?
Another of her pilots was abruptly gone, canopy torn open. A further handful were trying to get a bombing line on the centre of the Sarnesh detachment, to change the enemy priorities a little, perhaps. Their Fly-kinden bombardiers were already looking for targets, but the enemy numbers weren’t allowing them enough time to themselves.
Then one of the greatshotters was silenced, a Stormreader dropping down to hover virtually overhead for a second as it unloaded its bombs. A Collegiate, not a Sarnesh, came her instant speculation. The Beetles were more experienced pilots and they flew as individuals, dodging through the airborne melee with no regard for anybody else’s plans.
Prioritize any craft making for the other ’shotter, she instructed, but the response was instant: Captain, they all are.
Hornets are in the air, came the warning, and she ordered, Get clear of the wall, quickly.
They had fewer insects than they’d used to clear the skies over Collegium, and there had been no vile-smelling paste to mark out Imperial machines as ‘friends’ – not that it had helped much before – and so Bergild could only try and call her pilots back and get them out of reach as a cloud of angry hornets spiralled up from the cages they had been penned in. They would not last long, she knew – and they were a desperate measure because of the danger they would pose to the city itself and the men on the wall, but at the moment that last greatshotter represented the only reliable superiority the Empire currently held.
Another try at bombing their centre, she decided, selecting half a dozen pilots for the job. Get their attention again. And you, she detailed another handful, get yourselves over their automotives and start to break them up. The rest of you, split up and hunt down the Collegiate . . .
Her commands fell away into a great yawning chasm of uncertainty.
Her hands were still gripping the stick, but something was abruptly gone from her, and she could feel a kindred void in all her fellows.
The machine confining her lurched in the air and, amidst the rising panic from her pilots she could only think, What am I doing here. What is all this for?