Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

Olga stared at the mangled bodies for a fraction of a second, then forced herself to palm her locket open and focus. Some of the surviving guards were shooting blind, suppressive fire through the walls of the tent, while ahead of her half the bodies in the queue were doing just as he was-trying to cross over blind, heedless of hazard. Some of them would make it, some wouldn't, but at least

the crush would clear. The design on the inside of her amulet spiraled and twisted, dragging her eyes down towards a vanishing point. Somewhere behind her, a conclusive blast: and then she stumbled forward into a smoke-tilled space, the air thick with suspended dust, her head pounding and her stomach coiling. I made it, she thought. Then: We're mousetrapped.

"Milady!" Her eyes widened as she turned towards the Clan soldier, lowering the pistol that had appeared in her hand before she consciously noticed his presence.

"Where's the duke?" she snapped.

"This way." He turned and she followed him, nearly tripping over some kind of obstruction. A fishing net? There was a raised runway above it, and bodies. Too many bodies, some of them in Clan uniforms. She look a step up onto the rough-cut planks, bringing her feet above the level of the netting.

"What happened here?"

"Rope trap, my lady. It's a partial doppelganger, if they'd had time to complete it they'd have locked us out, but we used the treason room instead-"

"I understand. Now take me to the duke. I'm meant to be guarding his life."

Her guide was already heading up the servants' stairs, two steps and a time, and all she could do was follow. Behind her another body popped out of the air and doubled over, retching. It's not all over yet, she realized.

The former guardroom was a mess-one wall blown in, furniture splintered and chopped apart by shrapnel, the bodies of two defenders shoved into a corner and ignored-but at least it was in friendly hands. Angbard's staff clustered around in groups, exchanging messages and orders, and- Where's the duke? Olga headed for the biggest knot, who seemed to be bending over a table or something-

"Your grace?" She gaped.

Angbard glared at her with one side of his face. The

other drooped, immobile. "G-gel-" He struggled to speak.

"My lady, please! Leave him to us." A thick-set, fair-headed officer, one of the Clan Security hangers-on, Olga thought, struggling to recall his name, cradled the duke in his arms. "Where's the corpsman?" he rumbled.

"Your grace," Olga repeated, dumbly. The world seemed to be crumbling under her feet. Sky Father, what are we going to do now? The abrupt shift in perspective, to having to confront this mess without him, was far more frightening than the bullets and bombs outside. "Try to rest. We made it across, and we hold the keep."

"Corpsman!" the officer called. "Milady, please move aside." Olga stepped out of the way to let the medic through.

Eorl Hjorth, lurking nearby, looked at her guiltily. "He was like this when I got here," he mumbled. Olga stared at him. "I'm telling the truth!" He looked afraid. As well you might, she thought, looking away. If this turns to he anything other than Sky Father calling his own home...

A loud "Harrumph!" brought her attention back to the stocky officer who still supported Angbard's shoulder. He met Olga's gaze evenly. "I have operational command here, while his grace is incapacitated. Previously he had indicated that you have your own tasks to discharge, although I doubt you were expecting to discharge them here."

"That's true. You have the better of me, sir-" "Carl, Eorl of Wu by Hjalmar. Captain of Security." He glanced at the communications team, who were still wrestling with their field radio and its portable generator. "You report directly to his grace, don't you? External Operations?"

"That is correct, yes."

"Well. We could do with a few more of your friends here, for sure." Carl grunted. "It looks like a mess here, but nothing we can't break out of in a few hours." A frown creased his face. "Although whether his grace lasts it out

is another matter. And I liked it better when we had no enemy at the back door."

"He's- " Olga shut her mouth and looked back at the medic who, with the assistance of a couple of guards, was trying to make the duke comfortable. "He needs an American hospital."

"Well, he's not getting one until we break out of here." Carl's mustache twitched ferociously. A messenger cleared his throat behind Olga. "Report!"

"Sir! We got them!" The man held up a handful of yellow-sleeved wires.

"Yes, but did you gel them all?"

"These were all the fuses first squad could find in the cellars-"

A distant thud, like a giant door slamming shut outside, took Olga's attention. "What was that?" she demanded.

"Don't know." Carl strode towards the nearest window. "Shit."

"What is it?"

The security officer turned back to her. "That-"his thumb aimed at a rising plume of dust"-unless I'm mistaken, is the culvert to the river."

"Oh."

"My compliments to Sergeant Heinz, and you can tell him he did indeed find all the fuses in the cellar," Carl told the messenger. "He's to hold until the heavy weapons are in place, then proceed with task bravo." The messenger ran off. "Unfortunately he was in no position to check the pump-house for charges," Carl continued, gruffly. "Which is a problem. Because we're bottled up in here under those guns, we have no water, our doppelganger location is besieged, and his grace is inconvenienced." He didn't say dying, Olga noted. "So if you have any suggestions, before I go and attempt to retake the curtain wall in the face of our own stolen machine guns, I'd like to hear them."

Olga dry- swallowed, trying to work some juice into her mouth.

"Have you radioed Eorl Riordan to warn him off the American trap?"

"Yes. But he has his own problems. He won't be able to relieve us in less than two days, and if the royal army is out there, that'll be too late."

"But he has a flying machine." Olga shook her head. Then she smiled. Do I have to do all the plotting around here? "With your permission, I should like to talk to Eorl Riordan immediately. And you might ready such of your men as are ready to world-walk again. I think we might be able to deal with the enemy without mounting a frontal attack on those guns: and in the process, inconvenience the pretender mightily..."

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Ver 1.0

Scanned 12-18-2008 ChronMan

Initial scan and proof