killed.
‘Get me the
Colonel-Auxillian,’ he snapped at his attendant staff, and one of them flew off
to locate the man.
Colonel Edric was at
that moment coming over to make his report, in all his barbaric splendour.
Alder found himself vaguely surprised that the man was still alive, but then
recalled: Third wave is his tradition. Lucky for him we
pulled out when we did.
‘Colonel, speak your
piece.’
‘Sir.’ Edric had not
forgotten himself so far as to miss his salute. ‘We made progress, sir, we
really did. I’m told that the combination of engines, troops and the grenades
broke up the defenders so that we were able to send a whole wave of the
airborne over the wall without resistance.’
‘Really, Colonel? And
amongst the hill-tribes, this is considered progress?’
‘Sir?’
‘And will you take the
city with just one wave of the light airborne?’ Alder shook his head. ‘Go see
to your men, Colonel. Those few that are left.’
There was a bitter taste
in his mouth, and he had nobody to share it with. That is
what it means to be in command. But of his subordinate colonels, Edric
was too savage and Carvoc too dull. Only Norsa, of the Daughters, could
possibly understand his feelings. He promised himself that he would visit her
tonight, share a bowl of wine and talk of this in tones that would not be
overhead. An imperial general shows no weakness to his men. His bleak thoughts could not hide from his own scrutiny, however, nor would he
disown them. We have done poorly today, and that bastard
Drephos is to blame.
He saw the man in
question now, swathed in his robe as always, with not a crease or scratch on
him. As he watched the Colonel-Auxillian make his way over, his gait slightly
offset from some old injury, his face was just a blur under the cowl, but Alder
was sure that he could glimpse a smile there.
‘Drephos,’ he growled,
‘explanations, please?’
The cowled man made an
amused noise. ‘It’s war, General. Surely you know your own business.’
Alder’s one remaining
hand caught him by the collar, twisting the cowl half across his face. ‘For
what cause have you spilt the blood of so many of my men?’ he demanded.
‘For your cause, General,’ said Drephos, his voice showing no
sign that Alder held him by the throat.
‘I don’t see any of the
walls down, Drephos,’ Alder snapped. He knew that Wasp lives were less than
nothing to this man. Spending life in the Empire’s name was one thing, while
spending it to fuel the Colonel-Auxillian’s private games was quite another.
‘Let us have this
conversation again in two days’ time,’ Drephos suggested. ‘Then you might see
something quite different.’
Six
Tisamon and Tynisa were
duelling, passing rapidly around the circle of one of the practice halls of the
College. There were a dozen or so spectators, students garbed or half-garbed as
Prowess contestants, sitting on one of the tiers of steps. There was none of
the cheering and shouting of a public performance; instead, the watchers
murmured to one another on technique as they compared notes.
Nor was it the
formalized shortsword technique of Collegium’s duelling circle being practised
here. The pair carried rapiers, live steel blades, and the air between them
flickered and sang with the lightning clashes of the weapons. It struck Stenwold,
as he entered, that he had never seen Tisamon with a rapier in his hand before:
the folding blade of his clawed gauntlet had always been his first choice.
Rapiers were a Mantis-kinden weapon nonetheless and he was showing his
proficiency here. They dodged and lunged so abruptly, father and daughter, that
Stenwold felt that they must have rehearsed this between them. Each move was
matched by the other and he thought, at first, that the entire bout, starting
however long before his entrance, must have continued entirely without contact.
Then he heard Tisamon’s
voice coming in at irregular moments. ‘Strike,’ he would declare,
‘Get me the
Colonel-Auxillian,’ he snapped at his attendant staff, and one of them flew off
to locate the man.
Colonel Edric was at
that moment coming over to make his report, in all his barbaric splendour.
Alder found himself vaguely surprised that the man was still alive, but then
recalled: Third wave is his tradition. Lucky for him we
pulled out when we did.
‘Colonel, speak your
piece.’
‘Sir.’ Edric had not
forgotten himself so far as to miss his salute. ‘We made progress, sir, we
really did. I’m told that the combination of engines, troops and the grenades
broke up the defenders so that we were able to send a whole wave of the
airborne over the wall without resistance.’
‘Really, Colonel? And
amongst the hill-tribes, this is considered progress?’
‘Sir?’
‘And will you take the
city with just one wave of the light airborne?’ Alder shook his head. ‘Go see
to your men, Colonel. Those few that are left.’
There was a bitter taste
in his mouth, and he had nobody to share it with. That is
what it means to be in command. But of his subordinate colonels, Edric
was too savage and Carvoc too dull. Only Norsa, of the Daughters, could
possibly understand his feelings. He promised himself that he would visit her
tonight, share a bowl of wine and talk of this in tones that would not be
overhead. An imperial general shows no weakness to his men. His bleak thoughts could not hide from his own scrutiny, however, nor would he
disown them. We have done poorly today, and that bastard
Drephos is to blame.
He saw the man in
question now, swathed in his robe as always, with not a crease or scratch on
him. As he watched the Colonel-Auxillian make his way over, his gait slightly
offset from some old injury, his face was just a blur under the cowl, but Alder
was sure that he could glimpse a smile there.
‘Drephos,’ he growled,
‘explanations, please?’
The cowled man made an
amused noise. ‘It’s war, General. Surely you know your own business.’
Alder’s one remaining
hand caught him by the collar, twisting the cowl half across his face. ‘For
what cause have you spilt the blood of so many of my men?’ he demanded.
‘For your cause, General,’ said Drephos, his voice showing no
sign that Alder held him by the throat.
‘I don’t see any of the
walls down, Drephos,’ Alder snapped. He knew that Wasp lives were less than
nothing to this man. Spending life in the Empire’s name was one thing, while
spending it to fuel the Colonel-Auxillian’s private games was quite another.
‘Let us have this
conversation again in two days’ time,’ Drephos suggested. ‘Then you might see
something quite different.’
Six
Tisamon and Tynisa were
duelling, passing rapidly around the circle of one of the practice halls of the
College. There were a dozen or so spectators, students garbed or half-garbed as
Prowess contestants, sitting on one of the tiers of steps. There was none of
the cheering and shouting of a public performance; instead, the watchers
murmured to one another on technique as they compared notes.
Nor was it the
formalized shortsword technique of Collegium’s duelling circle being practised
here. The pair carried rapiers, live steel blades, and the air between them
flickered and sang with the lightning clashes of the weapons. It struck Stenwold,
as he entered, that he had never seen Tisamon with a rapier in his hand before:
the folding blade of his clawed gauntlet had always been his first choice.
Rapiers were a Mantis-kinden weapon nonetheless and he was showing his
proficiency here. They dodged and lunged so abruptly, father and daughter, that
Stenwold felt that they must have rehearsed this between them. Each move was
matched by the other and he thought, at first, that the entire bout, starting
however long before his entrance, must have continued entirely without contact.
Then he heard Tisamon’s
voice coming in at irregular moments. ‘Strike,’ he would declare,
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