Serpent Sword: A Steampunk Military Fantasy, page 11
She drew a breath, steeled herself. This was for all the people her family once ruled. Alonzo would have a freer hand if Grendel couldn’t use her as leverage. She had to escape, somehow.
Catalina returned her attention to the white circular clock above Grendel’s thrice-damned pet. Where was he? Ordinarily she’d have been pleased as punch to be ignored, but this was different. The old bastard was up to something, him and that damned man-eater general.
And unless Grendel had picked up a new plaything while he’d been away, he’d be eager to blow off steam. She’d be on the receiving end of his attentions sooner rather than later.
Well, that was something she could turn to her advantage. She went to her suitcase to get her robe. She could easily be ready for him when he arrived. She had it halfway unzipped before letting her hands fall away. She wasn’t one of his eager whores. She wasn’t going to just throw herself at him. That would be so odd, he would have to be suspicious.
Thinking about him reminded her of Hayes. It hadn’t been long, but that was too long. Although he’d have no lack of company back in Norridge, he’d never been away from her for more than a few hours. He had to be missing her so badly. And the Good Lord alone knew what that bitch Lenora and her spiteful satellite Cora could try with her gone, even with Jessamine and Roderick keeping an eye on him …
Thinking like this, she’d run mad. She returned to the bed and Impressions of Asherton. She’d only started the last chapter when heavy feet trod in the hallway.
There was only one person who walked like that. She breathed in, then out. If he was going to take her, well, it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. Many, many times before.
Voices in the hallway, speaking Sejer. Grendel never used that darkly melodic language in front of her, but she wasn’t completely ignorant. Pa made her, John, and Alonzo take lessons after Grendel took Norridge, and she’d heard the Obsidian Guard and Grendel’s concubine Signe and her daughter Astrid speak it often enough.
It was the old bastard all right, and it sounded like he was wondering if she’d tried to leave or had any visitors.
Catalina almost snorted. As though she was that stupid. Thankfully, the guardsmen didn’t mention Mrs. Breck by name, only that a maid had been cleaning the room. Nor did they mention the conversation about the tip, let alone how much it was.
The door opened. Catalina rose as Grendel came in, wearing the black frock coat and trousers he favored for meetings. Alrekr stood higher, dark eyes locked on its master. Grendel walked past the pterodactyl without even a look and sat down on the bed.
Catalina eyed him warily. He hadn’t acknowledged her at all. This wasn’t like when he was horny or in a dark mood and wanted to take her immediately, or if he was in a good mood and wanted it to be at least somewhat pleasant. Was this some mind game? Was he trying to keep her in suspense on purpose? Well, she wasn’t going to play along. “My lord?”
Grendel didn’t immediately respond. Should she sit down on the bed? That might get his attention. She might not like it, but it might help her figure out what was going on. Her teachers had always told her knowledge was power, the kind nothing short of death could take away.
“How is our son?” Grendel asked.
Catalina almost sighed in relief. The old bastard was a family man, in his way. “Well,” she began. “We’ve been reading a lot together. He can recognize his own name — ” both of them “ — and can remember some longer stories. In fact, he’s actually memorized ‘Olivia and the Ripper.’” She didn’t say what they’d been reading when Grendel summoned her, lest he think she was encouraging rebellion. “Roderick and Jessamine are watching him now.”
“Good. You have been doing well. I will recall Signe from Sejera to make sure the children’s education does not suffer.”
Signe was Grendel’s highest-ranking concubine, his wife in all but name. For both her and Grendel to be away from the harem for so long was unusual, and it’d give Lenora and Cora the chance to scheme.
“That reminds me,” Catalina said. “Arne organized a trip for all the children to the botanical garden.” She paused. Why was she so eager to brag about one of the old bastard’s other sons? Arne was always good to Hayes, unlike the aloof Falki and Logmar, and Hayes adored him. But Arne was a man now, old enough to fight. If Alonzo could hold Grendel at bay long enough, he might join them here.
“Havarth liked the camellia flowers, particularly,” she went on. “He was surprised to learn that’s where tea comes from.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Grendel’s wide face. “Very good. The citadel gave me the outlines of the excursion, but only bare bones. You gave it a personal touch. I will let Arne know it was a fine idea. And I will find a book on botany or making tea you two can read together.”
The paternal pride hung on his face for a moment before fading away. What in the fresh hell is going on? Grendel’s presence and the gathering of his armies meant a lot of people were going to suffer soon. Her people.
Well she knew exactly how to find that out …
GASPING LIKE SHE’D barely escaped drowning, Catalina slowly released the headboard and slumped onto the pillows. Grendel withdrew his right hand and its maddening fingers from between her legs and released her hips with his left. She slid onto her belly, breathing hard and sensitive everywhere.
Good Lord above. Much as she hated it when he managed to please her, it was easier to appear docile this way. Appreciative. Unthreatening. He’d let his guard down.
“That was…spirited.” A hand slid up and down her spine, heavy fingers setting off nerves still tingling from her climax. “Quite a surprise.”
What she said next had to be convincing. If he were feeling particularly affectionate, he might let his guard down, which could be useful. She managed to raise her head and look at him. “My lord, it’s good to be home.”
“Good. Enjoy it. We will not be here much longer.”
She tensed. His hand abruptly stopped in the center of her back. He must have noticed. Her mind whirled. You’re a Merrill in the enemy camp. Here’s your chance to use that.
“My lord.” She paused. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” His hand left her still-sensitive spine. He climbed off the bed and began gathering his clothing. Although he was in his fifties, the muscles rippling beneath his skin were still powerful. Perhaps that was why, when he wanted, he could still…
Stop that. There was something eating at him, and she determined to find out. Her stomach was already souring at what had to come next, but she did her best to ignore it.
“Are you sure you want to leave so soon?” She rolled over and wiped the sweat off her forehead, hoping she looked alluring rather than as ridiculous as she felt. She oriented her body toward him, and opened her legs.
It soon became clear he wasn’t so sure about leaving after all.
SPINNING PLANS
Alonzo watched from aboard the Asherton as the dirigible left Mossy Way. His gaze passed over the towering tan skyline to the dirigible yard below. Two enormous steel half-cylinders lay on their bellies, painted to match the nearest buildings. Turreted balloon-popper cannon pointed skyward along their spines, the local Shoemaker militia and a few walking-wounded regulars left behind in case of attack. Through the open doors he could see repairmen atop the captured airship’s mangled envelope.
That dirigible went into battle carrying fifty troopers, commanded by an experienced man. Only half that left, and the captain got a leg blown off. The sawbones are keeping what’s left soaked in whiskey and hoping it won’t mortify. Many medals, but far too many awarded posthumously.
Alonzo did his damnedest to focus on the captured yards. Enough space to shelter four smaller dirigibles beneath steel, or two the size of the Asherton. Four mooring towers for others, albeit without protection. The complex held endless cans of fire-retarding paint to keep the flyers from becoming death traps. Vast copper-lined tanks the size of saloons brimmed with sulfuric acid, fed regularly with metal shavings to make the precious hydrogen lifting gas. The works were a good distance from the hangars, lest they go up like firebombs and take the dirigibles with them.
But not far from the Flesh-Eater headquarters, that skyscraper the militia literally had to smoke out.
The man-eaters most definitely knew the basis for their power. Dirigibles could fly as fast or faster than a horse and never tire, running down raiding parties and killing them. Dirigibles were a floating artillery park that didn’t require many crew. Fifty men in a dirigible could crush thousands beneath their heel. A few dirigibles could dominate a city. So the man-eater big bug always looked out over the war machines that kept Mossy Way obedient.
War machines that Alonzo had to destroy rather than capture. Luckily, the city’s long-oppressed people had managed to take the dirigible yards intact, and were working long hours to fix up the captured airship. Then it could join the rest of the army rolling toward Jacinto.
“General Hutton, how many dirigibles have we captured?”
“Three, sir. Not counting the one the Second Pendleton lassoed before you killed Jasper Clark.”
“Good.” Then something occurred to Alonzo. “I meant to ask this earlier. What are the men calling that one?”
“The Alonzo Merrill, sir.”
Alonzo’s breath caught in his throat. He wobbled on his feet, grabbing the wall to steady himself. He’d damn near led them all to disaster at the excavation site. The odds of winning the battle Pa couldn’t grew longer every day. And they still came up with that?
“The men believe in you.”
Despite himself, Alonzo smiled. “Good. That’s the official name now. Might even be an opportunity to confuse the bastards, make them wonder how I’m in two places at once.”
Hutton chuckled. “Clever.” Then he was back to business. “The other dirigibles we captured were under repair, so it will be a spell before we can use them. The rest we shot down, or the cannibals burned in the yards.”
“Busy little bastards. How many airships you think the enemy has?”
“The Flesh-Eaters themselves, not many. They only received the funds and expertise needed to build a large fleet when they joined up with Grendel, and most of that was destroyed over the excavation site.”
Alonzo allowed himself to smile at the memory of Jasper Clark’s monstrous Bailey Mines slamming broken-backed into the dry ground, sowing fire for miles. Not long after, Alonzo had taken the man-eater chieftain’s head.
Hutton wasn’t through. “There are at least three Obsidian Guard dirigibles at Long Branch, including the Nicor itself. Two from the Blood Alchemy Host were reported as well, but the most recent reports suggest they’ve sailed east for some reason. The Leaden Host has got two more in the west, possibly including Matthews’ Old Epharim.”
Five, probably seven, dirigibles in-theater, intact, and two the rulers’ personal war machines. Matthews’ monster was roughly the equal of the Nicor, as befitting Grendel’s right hand. If they knew where to hit, they could blitz our air force. Send in the footsloggers with dirigible support and it’s over.
And Grendel no doubt had even more coming. Pa had fifteen dirigibles during the first war — and that included conscripted civilian craft as well as military models — while Grendel boasted at least thirty. Probably still has them. In a long fight we’d be proper fucked, especially without Jacinto to fortify.
Of course, there was more than one way to win besides a battle to the death. “Any word from Colonel Rhoads?”
Hutton shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
“Some Flesh-Eater bigwigs need to hang? We’ve still got the man-eater general’s staff.”
“We don’t know if anything’s happened with Colonel Rhoads. Exchanging hostages is a two-way street. More likely, the Flesh-Eaters are dawdling.”
“Dawdling on purpose. Maybe they know what he’s carrying.”
“Grendel’s people have confirmed they know he’s coming, so they can’t dawdle too much.” Hutton hesitated, looking obviously uncomfortable.
“Something else on your mind?”
It took Hutton a moment to answer. “A dirigible arrived in Long Branch a few days ago. According to our spies, it was carrying Catalina.”
The words struck Alonzo in the face. At Norridge she’d been a distant hostage, although he never could figure why Grendel didn’t play that card. Did he want to use her as leverage now? Or was that perverted Sejer bastard just taunting him?
“She’s here? She’s here and you didn’t fucking say anything?”
“We didn’t have confirmation until — ”
“THAT’S MY SISTER, GODDAMN IT!” he roared.
He breathed in and out, calming himself. This was not a cavalry charge where he could let his anger drive him to lay into an enemy. Hutton was a loyal man and didn’t deserve to be browbeaten, even if he did seem to think “need to know” applied to the Merrill himself.
Alonzo lowered his voice. “I’m sorry. But next time you have information like that, you tell me. I’m not some footslogger.” He sank back into his chair. “Did Gideon make any reference to her…child?” He’d heard Grendel had sired a red-headed brat on Catalina, but it wasn’t like he was ever asked to babysit.
“I imagine Grendel left any children he’s fathered on her in Norridge. She’d be less likely to try to escape.”
Alonzo resisted the urge to spit. “I don’t know why she’d give a shit. Women in that situation often abandon the brats when they’re born.”
He’d heard of babies left along the roadsides by refugees. Kindly souls who didn’t care about their parentage rescued some, but others ended up food for rippers or sand snakes if the sun didn’t get them first.
“She may have grown attached,” Hutton ventured. “It happens. It’s not the child’s fault his father is — ”
“THAT DOESN’T FUCKING” — Alonzo caught himself and lowered his voice — “matter.” He didn’t want to ride this horse anymore. “I can’t leave her in his hands any longer. Where does Gideon think she is now?”
“Still in Long Branch, as far as we know.”
“Not that far,” Alonzo said. “Not by air. I’m not stupid enough to throw my army at it instead of Jacinto, but we’ve got dirigibles in Flesh-Eater colors. Pick our best men, sneak in, and snatch her out from under Grendel’s nose.” The possibilities raced in Alonzo’s head. He grinned. “And if we can bag Grendel himself, all the better.”
“With all due respect, I would not recommend it. Sir.”
Alonzo’s fingernails, both his living ones and those of his brass fingers, dug into his palms. “Why not?”
“Grendel probably brought Catalina to get you to do exactly that. Risking dirigibles isn’t as stump-stupid as turning away from Jacinto or splitting the army, but it’d still play into his hands.” Hutton paused. “Besides, you raid where Grendel’s got her and she might get hurt or killed. You want that?”
“Of course not!”
“That’s why we should stick with the original plan. Grendel got here faster than we’d thought, but most of his troops are still coming overland through the Pass or from the west. Keep the screen strong so they can’t flank us. Once we take Jacinto, we’ll be able to raise the whole country. That’ll give us the manpower to take Bisbee and the other river crossings. Grendel will be more likely to consider our terms then. She’ll be nice and safe — ”
“In Grendel’s bed,” Alonzo interrupted. If it were Hutton’s sister getting fucked by a tyrant, he doubted his general would take it so goddamned lightly.
“Better there than in a crossfire between us and the Obsidian Guard. And if we keep Grendel busy, that’ll keep him away from Catalina.”
Alonzo had to admit Hutton had a point.
“However,” he began. “If things should change, if we do launch that raid … ”
“Then we’ll need an experienced airmobile force.”
Again, Hutton had a point. Grendel had destroyed most of Pa’s dirigibles during the war. By the time Fairmont rolled around, almost all the airmobile troops had been fighting on foot for months. And afterward the Flesh-Eaters had taken a keen interest in anybody with that experience for their own fleet. How many men had willingly taken the Flesh-Eaters’ dollar, been offered the choice between service or the stewpot, or simply ended up in the stewpot Alonzo didn’t know. Either way, there weren’t many old dogs left.
“Although we’re a bit light on the old-timers, we do have some new ones,” Hutton said.
“New ones? Those boys from the Second Pendleton?”
“Aye. According to their lieutenant’s report, they were right good at fighting the guns and the lieutenant actually commanded the damn thing even though a Flesh-Eater pilot they’d…persuaded…did the actual flying. If we put out word we’re taking men with airborne experience no questions asked, I imagine we’ll be getting more old personnel back. Going without them for a few weeks shouldn’t hurt the Second Pendleton much, and it’d give them valuable experience besides.”
“No questions asked,” Alonzo repeated. “The airship that saved my ass flew with a man-eater pilot with a gun to his head. Someone who’d served us before serving them wouldn’t be ideal, but it’d be better.”
“And we’d need them to do something they can never come back from, like we did with enemy rankers.”
As far as Alonzo knew, no galvanized man-eater had ever turned their coat a second time. What would equal forcing the footsloggers to gut their own officers? Perhaps bombing cities in the Flesh-Eaters’ mountain homeland? Pilots and crew who survived getting shot down during bombing raids sometimes got lynched by civilians, so that was certainly a way to make people hated.
First things first. If the dirigibles are manned by less-experienced men, we’ll start small. Drop mines onto the roads the enemy will use. Hit fuel depots to keep Grendel’s dirigibles grounded. If we can find an enemy airship abisselfa, shoot it down. That’d whittle them down before they could mass and weaken Long Branch’s defenses besides. And it’d fit nicely into Hutton’s master plan.
