The Rising by Ian Tregillis

Author:Ian Tregillis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy, Fiction / Fantasy / Historical, Fiction / Alternative History
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2014-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

A pair of Clakkers emerged from the front lines. They retreated several hundred yards. Then they sprinted across the field and leaped when they reached the ditches, hurling themselves into the air and soaring toward the wall. One from the south, one from the north. Cannon fired. A glistening bubble of epoxy and fixative intercepted the southbound machine at the apex of its trajectory. The impact stole enough of its momentum that it fell short. It slammed into the scarp and rolled into the moat, coming to rest like an inert clockwork bug trapped in emerald amber. The other set of gunners miscalculated the parabola. Their shot blew harmlessly under the Clakker’s upraised feet. Ranks of mechanicals deftly sidestepped the splash zone. The waste of precious chemicals hurt Longchamp’s heart. The northbound mechanical landed on the wall with a resounding chank like a miner’s pickax on granite. Defenders opened the stopcocks on the nozzles built into the machicolations. A torrent flooded over the climbing machine, gluing it to the wall and halting its progress.

The real attack hadn’t begun. The Dutch preferred first to let the fear sink deep. To give it time to fester into despair. So for now they confined themselves to small forays against the outer walls. A prolonged, desultory probing of the keep’s defenses.

Another flight of messenger pigeons emerged from their roosts within the Spire. Longchamp shook his head. He watched through slitted eyes—the smoke stung like a fucking snakebite, but that was nothing compared with the pain of a hot cinder wedged under the eyelid—as the confused trio rose into the hellish morning. The slapping of their wings sounded like applause. Though the sun and setting moon were all but invisible, a single circuit of the tower was enough for them to find their bearings, guided by whatever natural magics the Lord had granted them. Longchamp counted. Un… deux… trois… quatre…

The birds exploded. Miracles of God’s design one instant, gristly puffs of scarlet the next. Singed feathers fell upon the Porter’s Prayer, twirling like maple seeds. Seconds later the guns’ report reached the defenders on the wall. It sounded like a single shot to Longchamp’s fallible human ears. The Clakker sharpshooters had timed their shots to hit all three birds at the same instant. Just for the intimidating, demoralizing spectacle.

No messages would make it out of the besieged keep. The defenders were on their own. Did it matter? From whence could help find them? The last message to arrive before the mechanical sharpshooters started perforating the birds was a hasty plaintext lamenting the fall of Québec City.

The marshal general handed his spyglass to Longchamp. Then he retied the damp handkerchief over his nose and mouth. To his credit he’d eschewed one of the face masks with the charcoal filter. There weren’t enough masks or filters for all the defenders, so he’d refused to deprive the men and women fated to do the real work. Longchamp didn’t wear one, either. His throat stung just as much as his eyes.

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