Battle for the Wastelands Page 20

  That wasn’t all you did. Falki grit his teeth and took a deep breath. Keep your focus on the present. On the Pleasant, specifically. But the niggling, damning phrase “blood eagle” still floated in the back of his mind.

  Rosalyn pursed her lips. “Is something bothering you?”

  Falki shook his head. “It’s been a long day.” That part was true at least. And the best lie was one that was at least partially true. A future first lord of the Northlands had to be good at that.

  “So tell me, what’s Mary Grace like?”

  “It’s to the east of here. The coal ran out when Ma was a girl, but we adapted. We grow food for the areas where the mining’s still going on, especially if it’s in places where it’s hard for the miners to feed themselves.”

  Falki nodded appropriately. It was good to see the people in Mary Grace knew how to land on their feet when things changed.

  When things changed. Like when you let your goddamn temper get the better of you…

  Rosalyn’s eyes widened. “Did something I say upset you?”

  Falki sighed. If he didn’t get it off his chest, he wouldn’t enjoy the night at all. “Tell me,” he began. “Have you ever heard of the blood eagle?”

  She leaned forward. “Blood eagle?”

  Falki paused. What the hell kind of woman wanted to hear more about the blood eagle of all things? She didn’t have any objection to the throwing of the spear. But he wouldn’t tell her about that blood eagle.

  But there was another…

  Falki stood on still-wobbly legs in Father’s shadow. Father wore his black armor, complete with the tiger-skull helmet, and his wide face was like solid rock.

  They stood before the mottled yellow and brown sandstone trapezoid behind Norridge’s citadel. Between Falki and the huge tomb holding his mother’s and brother’s ashes — they’d been burned together on a longship on a lakeshore in Sejeran fashion — stood several wooden posts. Five naked men were bound hand and foot to each. Huge gongs flanked the wooden line. Black-clad guardsmen surrounded them. Beyond swarmed thousands of Norridge’s residents. Murmurs raced through the crowd. Occasionally someone shouted something. Falki had learned the flatlander tongue along with Jiao and Sejer, but the crowd was talking so fast he couldn’t understand them. He could tell the men standing before him were not liked.

  Father summoned two guardsmen in Jiao. The two men — amber-skinned and dark-haired, like Mother — stepped forward. They struck the gongs with huge mallets.

  The gongs’ thunder abruptly silenced the crowd. Father waited until the last vibrations ended and then started speaking flatlander. “Citizens of Norridge,” Father shouted. He spoke more slowly than the city folk. Falki could understand him. “Hundreds of your kin have died from cholera.” The murmuring broke out again. The Jiao raised their mallets. The crowds fell silent. “You are not alone in your grief. My wife Lin Cao is dead, as is my youngest son.”

  Father’s voice was steady. Falki had seen him weep beside the beds of his wife and youngest son. Weeping in private was fine, but not in public. Never in public.

  “Today, their ashes were interred here. And today, justice will be done for the cholera.”

  Father unrolled a scroll. The men had taken something called “bribes” — Falki would have to ask what those were — to hire workmen who didn’t do a good job fixing the city’s water and sewer systems after Father had taken the city. Germs got into the water and that made people sick. Made Mother and Delun sick. Made him sick.

  Anger screwed up Falki’s face. They’d killed Mother and Delun and they’d hurt him. Father was going to punish them.

  “Where I come from, those guilty of the highest crimes are sentenced to the blood eagle. Now see how I protect my own, and punish those who harm them.”

  Father ordered ten guardsmen forward in Sejer. Two stood behind each man bound to the posts. All drew long, curving knives.

  The men bound to the posts wept and rattled their chains. They didn’t even beg to live, but only to be spared the blood eagle. Piss streamed down some of the posts.

  Something inside Falki pitied them, but he pushed it away. Mother and Delun were dead. Whatever came next, they deserved it.

  Then Father gave new orders. The guardsmen buried their blades in the bound men’s backs. Blood flew. The men screamed.

  The screaming and the blood and the stink of piss were too much. Falki turned and ran, but a strong hand gripped his shoulder before he could hide behind Father.

  “No,” Father said. “You need to know what this looks like. Someday you’ll have to give this order.” He pushed Falki forward, toward guardsmen and their grim work. “Keep your eyes open. I will know if you do not.”

  Falki watched as the guardsmen put away their knives and jammed their thick fingers into the cuts they’d made. The men screamed louder.

  CRACK! Bones splintered. The screaming rose even higher. Falki squeezed his eyes closed. “Falki,” Father rumbled. Falki opened his eyes. It was just Father and him now. He wouldn’t let him down.

  The screaming stopped. The guardsmen were pulling something out of the bound men’s backs now, two red things that looked like bags. Falki remembered the word his tutors had taught him. “Lungs.” The guardsmen were pulling the men’s lungs out. They stepped back, their work done. The lungs hung out of the men’s backs. They fluttered once, twice, and stopped. The men’s bodies relaxed. Falki crinkled his nose at the smell.

  “This is what happens when you make mistakes and my people die!” Father shouted. “This is the law of Grendel!”

  Falki finished his tale. Most women would have been horrified by what he’d described — and that time it wasn’t even him doing it — but she just watched, her green eyes attentive.

  “That’s certainly one way to get the point across,” she said. “I bet Norridge hasn’t had a cholera epidemic since.”

  Falki shook his head. “There was one more after that, but it was a lot smaller and wasn’t due to corruption. In fact, Father greatly honored the people who ended it. Carrot and stick.”

  It was then Falki noticed she leaned closer to him.

  The pick’s definitely not the only gift.

  Falki lay his hand atop hers. She didn’t flinch or pull away. Maybe she feared offending the son of Grendel, but she didn’t look uncomfortable at all. In fact, she looked rather flushed. Definitely a good sign. He would be having fun tonight.

  Of course, that was tonight. Tomorrow would be different. He’d never taken a woman outside the Basin. He couldn’t leave her here, where he couldn’t keep an eye on her once he returned to Norridge. If he got her pregnant, that would cause problems, and he’d need to be the first to know. If he fucked her, he’d have to take her home.

  Of course, he couldn’t marry her. Father wouldn’t kill him, but death was an effective way to end a relationship.

  He shrugged. Father was not the only one who could have a concubine. Grendel took Signe soon after Mother died. He never married her — although that would have been nice — and he hadn’t married any of the succession of women he’d brought into the citadel either.

  Women like Lenora, women who’d borne potential rivals. He’d keep Arne around, but Logmar was dead meat. The younger boys might need to die as well. He didn’t want to inflict such a grim necessity on his own children.

  He rose abruptly. Rosalyn touched his arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m going for a walk,” Falki snapped. “I won’t be long.”

  He strode past Nahed down the long hall and out into the cool night. “Captain Grendelsson,” Nahed said from behind him.

  Falki whirled. “Yes?” Nahed stepped forward, but Falki raised a hand to stop him. “I’d like to be alone.”

  “Sir, your father’s orders —”

  “I’ll only be gone ten minutes. I doubt any of the things he fears will happen in that time.”

  The lights of the Obsidian Guard camp were a distant glow when Falki stopped. The flat,
open land around him was empty except for the nighttime sounds of bugs and other small animals. The full moon looked down on him like the eye of one of Sejera’s gods. The ever-present stink of coal-mining was all but gone.

  He sighed. Then he started reproaching himself. You goddamn weakling.

  A woman upset him, and yet he left? He’d run away? If he didn’t want to take her, he should have sent her away.

  Fortunately nobody other than Nahed and maybe a few guardsmen had seen. If word reached Mangle or Quantrill, they might think him weak enough to be challenged. They would not dare while Father lived, but he wouldn’t live forever. And thanks to Father’s inability to keep it in his pants, any troublemaker would have their choice of figureheads.

  He scowled. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Until then, he’d need to show himself strong, to make up for this lapse. He turned back to camp.

  Then he realized the night had fallen silent. He looked down. A faint shadow surrounded him.

  “Fuck!”

  He threw himself to the side and rolled, his hand diving for his revolver. Something huge slammed into the ground where he’d been a second ago.

  An elongated head stabbed at Falki as he rolled. The sharp beak sliced Falki’s right shoulder, cutting through the scarring a freeholder bullet had left a year ago.

  His gun snapped upward. He fired.

  The huge brown pterosaur lunged, moving on its feet and elbows. His bullet punched through a vast membranous wing. The predator screeched. Falki’s lips skinned back from his white teeth. He’d have the bastard stuffed and mounted.

  The pterosaur lunged. He leaped sideways and fired as the head stabbed through where he’d been. The beast screamed as the bullet carved a furrow atop its head.

  CRACK!

  His third bullet caught the pterosaur in its narrow chest. It screamed again, blood spraying from its mouth. Despite its wounds, it still lunged, beak reaching for Falki’s throat.

  Falki stepped to the side. The slash that would have killed him missed. The pterosaur recoiled, but Falki clamped his left hand around its long beak. It shrieked as best it could with a closed mouth, bright red blood dripping from the corners. It tried to twist free, but it was weakened and Falki’s grip was like iron.

  Falki locked eyes with the dying monster. Want to finish this with minimal damage to you, my pretty little killer. I want to show you off to my friends.

  The pterosaur lashed with its wing-claws, scoring Falki’s left arm. He ignored the pain and gave the head a hard twist, snapping its neck.

  Falki sat in a chair outside his command post, an Obsidian Guard surgeon stitching the larger wounds closed. Rosalyn stood a respectful distance away.

  Nahed shook his head. “I did warn you not to go out alone.” Beyond him, guardsmen dragged the winged horror into the circle of light provided by the gas lamps.

  Falki frowned but said nothing. However infuriating that was, Nahed was right. Instead, he focused his attention on the pterosaur.

  From wingtip to wingtip, it was roughly fifteen feet. Its neck was at least four. The terrible head was three and bore a feathered crest. Down covered most of its brown body.

  Despite the pain from his wounds, Falki smiled. In his free time, he’d hunted rippers, raptors, saber-cats, and dire wolves. He’d slain tyrant lizards and brought their young to zoos and parks, wiping them out in all but the most isolated parts of the Basin. However, the smaller beasts were relatively easy to kill if one had a big enough gun, and he’d never killed a tyrant lizard by himself.

  This creature had the drop on him and was a damn formidable opponent. But he’d defeated it alone. That’d build respect for him among the guardsmen.

  “I want it packed in whatever ice you can requisition and put aboard the next dirigible,” Falki ordered. “Send it to my taxidermist in Norridge. This son of a bitch will be decorating my wall.”

  The guardsmen nodded and bore away the fallen pterosaur. Some remained, watching the surgeon work. Once the stitches were done, Falki rose. “You’re dismissed,” he ordered. Most of the remaining troops returned to their tasks, leaving Nahed, the two men guarding the bunker entrance, and Rosalyn. Falki’s gaze fell on her. He had a victory to celebrate.

  “Lieutenant Nahed, bring her in.”

  Falki returned to his office, with Nahed escorting Rosalyn. He sat at his desk and faced the beautiful woman. “The timing works out quite well, don’t you think?” Falki locked eyes with her. “You arrive with your gift and the heir of the Northlands is nearly killed. I’m no fool — I know one can train a pterosaur.”

  Rosalyn’s eyes were wide, but her voice remained steady. “I had nothing to do with that! They’re everywhere after a battle, and it hasn’t been that long since the fighting ended. I’d expect you of all people to know that.”

  Nahed learned forward, expression dark. “Treat the heir of Grendel with more respect.”

  Falki raised his hand. “Thank you for your concern, lieutenant. I think I can handle one woman.” A woman who could stand up to him, even when he all but accused her of plotting to murder him? This was a rare treat.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In fact, I’d like to continue the questioning alone.”

  Nahed frowned, but nodded. He saluted, stepped outside, and closed the door. Falki turned his attention to Rosalyn. “You didn’t leave when I did, even though you’d given me the gift,” he demanded. “Why?”

  “Well…” She toyed with her blonde hair. “You said you wouldn’t be long.”

  Falki grinned. “And I kept my word.”

  He rose and swept around the desk. His heart raced. His uniform trousers were tighter than usual.

  “Help me get out of these bloody clothes.”

  Rosalyn grinned. “Gladly.”

  He kissed her fiercely, and she returned it with equal passion. He tore her shawl away and threw it on the floor. She went to work on the gold buttons of his uniform.

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  Goddamn it.

  “For you, sir.” It was Nahed. “Priority telegram from Norridge.”

  Falki pushed Rosalyn aside. “Come in.”

  Nahed obeyed. Sparing an ominous glance for Rosalyn, he handed Falki a telegram.

  Falki smiled as he read the new orders. A dirigible was coming from Norridge. He was to return to the capital due to “urgent business.” General Hakonsson would handle everything now.

  His smile grew wider. However much he enjoyed field command more than politicking, overseeing the disputed zone was far less interesting than fighting down challenges to his family’s preeminence. Someone with a greater tolerance of minutia would do the job far better than he.

  Falki put the telegram in his uniform jacket. “When will the airship arrive?”

  Nahed examined his pocket-watch. “I’d say within four or five hours.”

  Falki grinned. “Excellent. I will be ready to leave when the airship arrives. Lieutenant Nahed, you are dismissed.”

  Nahed saluted, and Falki returned his salute. Once the man was gone, Falki turned his attention to Rosalyn.

  “Now where were we?”

  The Great Vittles Grab Begins

  Hutton unrolled the map across the wooden table in the same tent where Alonzo had learned about the coming starvation. Paul closed the tent flap against possible eavesdroppers before taking his seat. “The Southern Wall is weakest in the west,” the general said. “And the crops north of Pendleton will be in. The Flesh-Eaters will take their cut, which means a lot of tax collectors running around and full supply depots.”

  Alonzo nodded as he examined the map. The Southern Wall crept ever westward, shrinking the raiding corridor and bringing dirigibles ever closer. But there were still opportunities.

  Alonzo pointed to the westernmost forts. “They’ll expect us to attack there. We’ve been attacking the wall as they built it. When was the last time we attacked east of…” — he put his finger on the map, on the portion of
the Southern Wall one hundred miles below the bend in the Grand River — “…there?”

  Hutton shook his head. “The forts are closer together, better able to support each other. Assuming we don’t get spotted from the air, we might be able to slip through, but the soldiers aren’t coming back.” Hutton looked at his commander. “I didn’t take your dollar to needlessly send our boys to their deaths.”

  Alonzo frowned. “I wouldn’t dream of having our soldiers die without need, general.” He turned his attention to the map. The plan he had in mind required hitting the eastern parts of the Southern Wall to divert Flesh-Eater attention from his planned breakthrough in the west. Of course, the Flesh-Eaters weren’t idiots. Any diversionary attack would need to be large enough to look real. And effective enough.

  He slid his finger westward. “Here’s a good target. It’s close enough to the thickest clusters of forts it’ll make the bastards reckon we’re trying to engage their largest army on the wall. The defenses are thin enough we might manage a local breakthrough, but it’s far enough away our boys will be able to hit and run.”

  Hutton peered at the map. “Forts Taylor, Stirling, and Deming. Striking thereabouts seems sensible. Some of the riders’ve reported troops pulling out and heading north.” He paused. “The problem is putting enough soldiers there to make the Flesh-Eaters think it’s the real attack and breach the Southern Wall in the west. Not only that, but hold it open long enough to get the supplies.”

  “And making sure they’ve got enough supplies to do their jobs,” Paul added. “Every single rider we send is going to need ammunition, food and fodder, and a right lot more besides.”

  The irony nearly made Alonzo laugh. In order to get the supplies they needed to avoid starving to death, they’d need to expend most of what little they had. And although they’d bartered much of the meat and leather from the animals they’d slaughtered to the pikeys, it was still dicey whether they had enough. “How many effectives do we have?”