The engineer companies signaled they were ready to move. The last of the slaver cloud ships hit the ground. Aleksandar nodded to his signalman, gave the order for ’thopters to launch. The soft whine built to a throbbing pulse, the lubdubdubdubdub of propellers vibrating in his chest. He turned, pale blue eyes watching the craft rise slowly, no more troubled by the brutal gale than a dog by a handful of fleas.
The ’thopters were shaped like crooked dragonflies, possessed of the slightly asymmetrical coarseness common among his country’s engineering exploits. No two looked the same; cobbled together by mekaniks of different houses, each with his own theory on how to design a flying machine. But the fundamentals were similar—a round pod set with a tail, two glass portals resembling an insect’s eyes, and three vast propellers left, right and aft.
They were as graceless as drunken whores. Slow as three-legged horses. Unable to achieve either the speed or altitude of the Shima cloud ships, and prone to catastrophic malfunction. Their crews called them “flying coffins,” and the infantry called their crews “the winged dead.” But they could fly in a storm, by the Goddess. And on a day like today, that was all the advantage the Morchebans needed.
The slaver fortress crouched on a steep hill, its back to a ragged granite cliff, towers set with heavy shuriken-throwers. Any siege engines sent against the walls would have to be crafted of metal, lest they be incinerated by the flame-spitters studding the battlements. And even if the towers themselves weren’t flammable, the men inside surely would be.
Of course, the spitters would only work if there were slavers alive to man them.
The ’thopter fleet hovered fifty feet off the ground in rough formation, almost forty in all, wobbling in ferocious winds. A fierce gust sent one ’thopter crashing into two others, all three falling from the sky and ending as twisted, flaming shells on Kawa’s cobbles. But the rest made their way slowly through the cramped and burning city, drawing closer to the slaver keep and the samurai scrambling like insects on its walls.
Hails of shuriken fire and catapult scatter-loads tore the skies as the ’thopters drew within range. Aleksandar could hear that hateful popopopopopopop!, his mind drifting back to the day his father had been cut down on the walls of Mriss. ’Thopters dropped from the sky, the men inside reduced to leaking bags of bloody meat. Explosions echoed across the city, bright flares and plumes of black smoke uncoiling from crashed aircraft. Aleksandar gritted his teeth, muttered a prayer. Ears straining. Eyes narrowed. Waiting for the storm to truly begin.
A grim smile twisted his lips as a hollow crackling sound burned in the space between his eardrums, and bright arcs of impossible blue-white spat from the lead ’thopter’s snout, followed by half a dozen others. Raw lightning spewed from the belly-mounted cannon, shearing across the battlements in blinding patterns, leaving a green flare on the back of Aleksandar’s eyelids and blackened, bloody ruins where samurai had once stood. Flame-spitters spewed into the ’thopter’s faces, lightning boiling the black rain to steam. And turning to his signalman, Aleksandar gave the order for the second wave to begin.
The siege-crawlers started their engines, filling the air with the stink of burned skin and ozone. The vehicles were ugly fat hulks of riveted iron, wrapped in segmented tank tread. Eleven of them surged forward, smashing a path through warehouses and family homes as they drove toward the keep. The machines were a brand-new creation of the mekaniks at the Akmarr proving grounds—this attack on Kawa was their first real field test. They looked impressive enough; all black studded iron, and broad, spear-tip snouts. But 30 percent of their complement had been lost during the beach landing, mostly due to mechanical failure.
As if reading his thoughts, one of the ’crawlers coughed blinding sparks from its cooling vents, shuddered and ground to a stop. Hatches burst open, black smoke spilling into the air, charred troopers tumbling from the scalding innards. Mercy Sisters ran forward and dragged the poor bastards onto stretchers, hauling them to the medical trains at the rear of the line.
Aleksandar lifted his kerchief and tried to spit the taste of charred flesh from his tongue.
“Your sons will remember this day…”
He waited until the ’crawlers were fifty yards from the keep wall, and with one last prayer to the Goddess, he climbed onto a stack of packing crates, drew his lightning hammer and looked over the army before him. A legion of heavy steel and black banners set with twelve red stars, blue eyes glittering beneath their helms, lightning on their blades.
The Kapitán roared above the chaos of battle and engine and storm.
“Brothers! Before you lies your hated foe, trembling behind walls of stone! You will drink their strength! You will wear their skins! And tonight you will dine in the ruin of their halls, or with the Goddess in the Halls of the Victorious Dead!”
The men answered with a roar, all raised fists and gleaming iron.