Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"Right, right." Helmut nodded. "Well, that puts a different picture on things." He glanced at Angbard, anticipating the duke's dismissal. "It" you'll excuse me, sir, my men need me?"

He turned and trotted back towards the siege tower. Overhead, on the platform, the first lance's messenger was shouting excitedly, something about the room being clear. "Listen up!" he called. "Change of plan. We're going in now. Housecleaning only, new plan is to secure the upper floors, strictly indoors. Anyone who goes outdoors gets their ass shot off: the bad guys have got their hands on a couple of M60s, and until we pinpoint them we're not going to be able to break out. Lance three, follow me in. Lance two, follow after."

He strode up the ramp as fast as he could, bringing his M16 down from his shoulder. The messenger was almost jumping from foot to foot. "It's clear, sir! It went really well. Erik said to tell you he's moving out into the upper gallery and will secure the roof line. Is that right?"

"It was." Five minutes ago, before we knew they had machine guns on the bastions. Helmut shook his head, an angry sense of injustice eating at his guts. Erik was probably already dead. "Okay, let's go to work." He glanced over his shoulder, at Irma and Martyn and the others in the lance he, personally, led: they were watching him, trusting him to lead them into the unknown. "For the glory of the Clan! Follow me..."

Otto nearly didn't make it out of the castle. He was in the courtyard with Sir Geraunt and his personal guards, supervising the withdrawal of the body of his forces to the gatehouse and the prepared positions outside the castle walls, when there was a deafeningly loud thud from inside the central keep. "What's that?" Geraunt asked, stupidly.

"Nothing I planned." Otto turned to Heidlor, who was waiting for further instructions: "Stations! As I ordered!" The hand-man hurried off, and Otto met Sir Geraunt's curious gaze. "It'll be the enemy. Too damned early, blast them. Quickly, this way." "But the lighting-"

Otto bit back his first response. "A commander who gets himself killed in the first engagement isn't terribly effective later in the battle," he muttered. "Come on." He hurried towards the gate tower's postern door. "You there! Stand by!"

A crackle of witch-gun fire echoed out of the central keep. On the top of the gate tower, and the tops of the four towers around the curtain wall, he saw the shields of the captured M60s swinging to bear on the keep.

More gunfire, and screams-this time, the fiat boom of his own men's musketry, but far too little of it, too late. Gods, they're good. He could see it in his mind's eye: the witches appearing in the middle of a room, unable to enter in strength, surrounded by the cat's cradle of ropes while his men hacked at them desperately with blade and club, trying to keep them from advancing into the keep before the welcome mat was ready-

He paused at an arrow slit. A light blinked in one window high up in the keep, flashing a prearranged signal. He blinked, then swore. "What is it?" asked Sir Geraunt.

"They had a back door," Otto said tersely. Just as he feared: and they'd come through it hard and fast, hours sooner than his plan called for. "Every man of ours in the keep is as good as dead." He turned from the window and stopped: Sir Geraunt was between him and the staircase leading up to the top of the gatehouse.

"We must do something! Give me a score of men and I'll force an entrance-"

"No you won't." Otto breathed deeply. "Come on, follow me. It's premature, but." A grinding roar split the air overhead and he winced: it stopped for a moment, then started again, bursts of noise hammering at his ears like lists as the machine gun battery opened fire on the roofline of the keep, scything through the figures who had just appeared there. "Quickly!"

Up on top of the gatehouse the stench of burned powder and the hammering racket of the guns were well-nigh unbearable. Otto headed for the hetman he'd left in charge. "Anders. Report."

"They're pinned down!" Anders yelled over the guns. "They keep trying to take the roof and we keep sweeping them off it." The machine gun paused as two of his men fumbled with gloves at the barrel, swearing as they inexpertly worked it free and tried to slot the replacement into position.

"They seem to have learned to keep their heads down," Otto said dryly. A spatter of gunfire from a window in the keep targeted the doorway to the northern tower: the heavy guns on the south and west replied, chipping lumps of stone out of the sides of the arrow slit. "Keep them bottled up. Conserve your fire if you can." He glared disapprovingly at the two other towers, whose gunners were pounding away at the enemy as if there was no shortage of ammunition. "Carry on."

He ducked back down the stairs towards the guardroom overlooking the gale tunnels. "March," he said, spotting a sergeant: "What state did you leave the charges in?"

"The barrels are in position, my lord." March looked pleased with himself. "The cords were ready when I left."

"Good!" Otto nodded. He looked around: there was an entire lance of soldiers in the room. "Then let's set the timers and fall back to our prepared positions." He made the sign of the crone behind his back, where the men couldn't see it: If this fads ... It wasn't just the king's men who knew how to fill a wise tree.

The duke was as tense as she had ever seen him: that worried Olga. Not that most of the junior nobility and officers scurrying between communications and intelligence tables would recognize the signs-Angbard was not one to fret obviously in public-but she had known him for years, almost as a favorite uncle, and had observed him in a variety of situations, and she'd seldom seen him as edgy as this. From the set of his shoulders to the way he held his hands behind his back as he listened to messengers and barked orders, the duke was clearly trying to conceal the extent of his ill-ease. Is it really that had? she wondered.

It had started with the messenger who arrived just minutes after the vanguard of the raiding group crossed over into the treason room: she'd been close enough to hear the news of the machine guns, and he could hardly fault the duke for being disturbed by that. But as time went by, and the minutes counted on from the incursion, the duke had become even more unhappy. The brief message from Brilliana-she'd been standing right behind him when he received it-had brightened his mood momentarily, but the lack of courier reports was obviously preying on his mind. Clan security didn't have enough bodies to keep him supplied with a blow-by-blow account of the action, and he knew better than to micromanage a skilled subordinate, but his patience had limits. And so, she waited by the duke's command table, keeping one eye on Eorl Hjorth- who she trusted as far as she could throw him. Hjorth's testimony to the council might well decide whether the duke remained in charge of Clan Security. So we'll have to make sure that his testimony is favorable, won't we?

"Sir, I have the hourly report from Eorl Riordan." The messenger offered Angard a print-out to scrutinize. The duke glanced up. "Where's Braun?" he demanded tensely.

"Sir." Braun-a wiry fellow, one of the distaff side of the Hjorth-Wu side-saluted.

"Messenger for Helmut, or whoever's in charge, immediate: sweep the cellars for explosive charges." The duke paused for a moment. "He's not to attempt to sally from the keep until Stefan's unit is in place to take out the machine guns." Olga glanced over her shoulder: the second platoon, with their heavy equipment, were already climbing the siege tower. "Instead, he's to ensure there are no surprises in the cellars under the keep. I think the pretender's trying to be clever." He delivered the final word with contemptuous satisfaction. "What-"

There was some kind of disturbance going on at the perimeter. Even as Braun charged off to brief a courier, and the heavy weapons platoon climbed the lower and vanished from its top deck three at a time, a distant noise reached Olga's ears, like the throbbing growl of distant traffic. She glanced up. Lightning Child! Not here, not now! A pair of guards detached themselves from the group near the awning and trotted towards the table. Re-flexively, she moved her right hand close to her jacket pocket, interposing herself.

The first of the guards stopped three meters short and saluted. Olga relaxed slightly, for a moment. "Sir! We have hostiles in view. Sergeant Bjorg is calling a Threat Red."

"How many hostiles?" asked the duke, as if it was a minor point of interest.

Olga cleared her throat. "Sir, I think we should evacuate now."

"Two choppers overhead at last sighting, sir, but it's not looking good on the ground, either: there've been no cars or trucks for a couple of minutes now." The throbbing was getting louder. Almost as if-

The duke shook himself. "Get everyone across immediately!" he barked. He pointedly refrained from looking up. "Third platoon, provide covering fire if necessary. Olga!"

"Your grace?" She stared at him.

"You're going across right now, with the headquarters staff. Keep an eye on Hjorth-he's mostly got our interests at heart, if he's smart enough to understand where they lie." The duke gestured at the siege tower. "Get moving!"

"But they're-" The bass roar of rotor blades was unmistakable now: not just one set, but the throb of multiple helicopters. Olga set her jaw. "After you, my lord!"

"You- " For a moment, the duke looked furious: then he nodded tightly, and stalked towards the tower. A squad from the third platoon raced to take up positions around the entrance and behind the low awning, as the duke's staff hurriedly grabbed their papers and equipment and trotted towards the platform from which they could cross into the treason room.

Olga ducked over to the side of the map table and retrieved her rifle and kit-a very non-standard item, more suitable for a sniper than a soldier-then followed the exodus towards the tower. The roof of the tent billowed beneath the thunder, and for a terrifying moment she wondered if she was about to see a SWAT team dropping right through the fabric roof on ropes-but no, the cops won't do that: they'll go for a siege. Unless-

The voice of an angry god battered through the walls. "Come out with your hands up! You have ten seconds to comply!"

Olga grimaced. Bastards, she thought absently. For a routine weekly briefing this was certainly turning out to be an interesting one. I wonder how they tracked us? It couldn't be the phone Mike had given her-that wasn't even in the same county.

The queue at the tower had backed up, bottlenecked at the foot of the stairs, but it was moving fast, the world-walkers jumping as soon as they reached the top step with reckless disregard for whatever might be waiting for them on the other side. Olga could see the duke up ahead, near the top step. He glanced over his shoulder as if looking for her, then reached the platform and disappeared. She took a deep breath, relieved. The throbbing roar of rotor blades and the flapping of the canvas roof were making it hard to think: But we were negotiating: why attack now! she thought. Why? It made little sense. Unless they think-

A punishingly loud blast of gunfire ripped through the side of the tent, slapping the fire team behind the main entrance into the ground. "We can see you. Drop your weapons and come out immediately! "