Spoils of War (Tales of the Apt Book 1), Adrian Tchaikovsky [13 ebook reader .txt] 📗

Although Lial Morless was to be one of the great heroes of artificing, more level-headed historians now play down his influence. It was clear, they say, that manned orthopters would have been achieved within a few years of his maiden flight, by someone else if not by him. Besides, the airship trade continued blissfully unaffected by the introduction of heavier-than-air fliers, as airships had a greater range, and could carry vastly more cargo, although the Messenger’s Guild was forced to adapt considerably. Professional opinion continued to play down the import of orthophers and other heavy fliers right up until the year 538, when the Wasp Empire commenced its invasion, and the character of the skies changed forever.

This is an odd one to start with, taking place so long before the beginning of Empire. It’s a look at a Collegium the novels don’t show – not just before Stenwold, but also, while the city of Empire isn’t perfect, it has, at least, improved since Lial Morless’s day. This is Totho’s story, in a way. Scop is his spiritual ancestor, paving the way to get Totho into the Academy, while not quite disarming the Collegiate’s prejudices towards halfbreeds, and from those two things, of course, a great deal follows.

Ironclads

“Tell me again.” Varmen could feel himself getting angry, which was never a good thing.

“No sign.” The little Fly-kinden kept his distance, for all the good that would do against a Wasp. “Not a single soldier of them. Nothing, Sergeant.”

“They said –” Varmen bit the words off. He was keeping his hands clenched very deliberately because, if he opened them, the fire within would turn this small man into ash.

“They said they’d be right behind us,” said Pellric from behind him, sounding as amused as always. “Didn’t say how far.”

“Right behind us,” Varmen growled. He stomped back to the downed flying machine. The heliopter had been a great big boxy piece of ironmongery when it was whole. When it struck the ground the wood and metal had split on two sides. What roof was left, shorn of its rotors, would barely keep the rain off. A rubble of crates and boxes had spilled out of it, some of them impacting hard enough to make little ruins of their own.

The pilot had not lived through the crash, and nor had two of the passengers. Lieutenant Landren was, in Varmen’s opinion, wishing that he was in the same position. The bones of his leg were pushing five different ways, and there was precious little anyone could do with them.

“Oh we love the Imperial scouts, we do,” Varmen muttered. “Bonny boys the lot of them.”

“You should have seen what hit him,” the Fly said. The tiny man, barely up to Varmen’s waist, was supposedly a sergeant as well, but he was happy to hand the whole mess back to the Wasp-kinden. “Cursed thing came right down on the props like it was in love.” The corpse of the dragonfly was in smashed pieces around them, along with what was left of the rider. Did he know? Varmen wondered. Did he bring them down deliberately? Probably the stupid bastard thought he could fly straight through, ’cos the rotors were going so fast he couldn’t see ’em.

The ground around here was as up-and-down as anyone could wish not to be holed up in. The Dragonfly-kinden could be anywhere, and probably were. The red tint to everything told Varmen that the sun was going down. The unwelcoming hill country around them was about to get more unwelcoming in spades.

“Where are they?”

“I said –”

“Not our lot, them.”

“Oh, right.” The Fly’s face took on a haggard look. “Oh they’re right all around us, Sergeant. They cleared out when you got here, but for sure, they’re still watching us. You can bet, if we know the Sixth Army isn’t coming, then so do they.”

“Get fires going,” Varmen heard Pellrec saying. Pellrec wasn’t a sergeant, but Varmen wasn’t a planner. They had an arrangement. “The Commonwealers see cursed well in the dark. Tserro, your little maggots are on watch.”

The Fly sergeant’s face went even sourer but he nodded. Tserro, that was his name. Names were not a strong point of Varmen’s.

Stupid place to end up, frankly. For the cream of the Imperial military, the spearhead of the Sixth Army, the very striking hammer of the Wasp invasion of the Commonweal, he had hoped for better. It had all seemed such a good idea. Varmen was a professional soldier after all. He was used to sniffing out dung-smelling errands and dodging them. This had carried all the marks of little risk and high praise. I’m such a sucker for the praise... Scouts have got into trouble again – like they always do – A squad of Fly-kinden irregulars and a heliopter suddenly stranded. Go hold their hands until the army picks up the pieces. Sixth is heading that way anyway, won’t be a day, even. So off we trot with a little iron to give the scouts some backbone. Five sentinels and a dozen medium infantry slogging ahead of the advance in all our armour. Because we knew the rest were right behind us. They told us they were coming, after all. How can a whole army lie to you?

“Get all the luggage into some kind of front wall,” Pellrec snapped out, getting the infantry moving. “One man in three with a shield at the front, the rest keep under cover and be ready to shoot out. Tserro –?”

“Here.” The little sergeant was obviously still weighing who was supposed to be giving orders, and where the chain of command ran. He clearly took the fact that Varmen had not countermanded anything as his casting vote. “Where do you want us?”

“Space your men so they can keep watch over every approach,” Pellrec told him. “Bows and crossbows, whatever you have. When they appear, get in under the heliopter’s hull.”

Wings bloomed from the Fly’s shoulders and he skipped