It took Lord Miles just one day to gather all of the information that he had on Calders and Brookdale and have it delivered to Smythe who, feeling much more refreshed, read it with interest.
They had started with the company at roughly the same time and their resumes detailed a number of previous employers and had references and letters or recommendation from the latest.
Investigation teams found that the companies were false and that the addresses given were residential, rented properties.
The Professor had ordered an all ports watch as soon as he received Lady Ashdown's whisper the previous day. It had been too late to prevent him from leaving on a company airship however. The Port Authority had passed on the flight documents, which showed it as heading for Stamford.
Too bloody close to that damned curtain for my liking, Smythe thought as he gripped the railing looking down at the green and pleasant land passing slowly beneath them.
The Glave was another Sanction ship. Outfitted with the new Steam Rocket system, she used diesel engines for normal flight, and the rockets for a quick entry and exit. She was designed purely for getting in and out as fast as possible. With the contrails she would leave once the rockets were fired, stealth was not an option.
He found himself grinning in anticipation at seeing the rockets being fired, having heard a lot about them, but not having had experienced them before.
Because of her role, her armaments were also lighter and she had a higher complement of aethermancers to aid in shielding and defence. He looked at the escort they had, alongside, above and below were heavier Battle-class ships. This close to the Curtain, it was not unusual for flight-capable aether-born to get through the defences.
His fingers gripped the rail tightly as he thought about just how easy it was for aether-born to make their way through the Curtain. No matter how many soldiers, guns, aethermancers, forts, mines, forests of barbed wire and ships there were, something always managed to get through.
I suppose it’s an economy of scale. We can stop any determined attack they might throw at us en masse, just not the odd creature or person desperate to get through.
As the flotilla approached Stamford’s Landing Port a series of flares, aldis lamps, morse and whispers were exchanged whilst anti-flight artillery emplacements tracked their progress.
“Abort the landing!” Lady Ashdown strode down the deck towards the bridge, “abort the bloody landing!” Curious as to what all the fuss was about, Smythe tapped out his pipe and hurried over to her.
“Port Authorities just whispered me. An airship tried to breach the curtain, not less than an hour ago. It was shot down after they breached heavier than usual shields, but not before they spotted parachutes. The wreck did not come down this side either,” Smythe groaned as he realised what was coming, “the bustard’s in aether-born territory.”
*
Thank God, we have the rockets to get in fast. Smythe shuddered as he remembered the old days when airships were still being developed. Losses had been high and it had been a case of getting any flight-worthy ship up into the air. The Battle for England’s airspace had very nearly undone all of the gains made on the ground.
He walked slowly in Lady Ashdown’s wake and beckoned to a young Ensign. “Inform our escorts we’ll be needing their help for a bit longer. Battle alert. I will also need a ten-man detail of Parachutists. Tell them to pack light on food but heavy on ammunition and grenades. I want experienced, and preferably single men if practicable. Make sure it’s volunteers only.”
I’ve seen too many orphans and widows to make any more, he thought as the Ensign hurried off.
He looked around him, marvelling at what he saw. If the security for Stamford had been tight, the Curtain was “tighter than a frigid gnat’s arse!” as Gubbins so eloquently put it. He stared at the flitter hovering next to them. It was one of the straight-ups, a Dragonfly Class, with the engine driving rotors that were above it. The crew sat side by side and the gunner was currently training a heavy-calibre maxim gun on the ship. Because the new straight-up technology was often prone to catastrophic failure, the Flitter still had wings, using them to glide back to earth if necessary. Slung underneath each of them was a rack of rockets.
He shuddered, Wouldn’t get me to fly one of those bloody things, especially with those damn rockets ready to pop off at the slightest excuse.
Leaning back, he stretched against the weight of the parachute he was wearing. God it feels damn good to be back in uniform, back in the right uniform. Didn’t realise how much I missed the regiment!
He looked up as a shadow passed overhead; it was a Dreadnought, a killer airship designed for the utter destruction of anything that had the temerity to try to put up a fight.
How in God’s name did that bastard Calders manage to get through all of this?
He leaned forward to watch as the Dragonfly suddenly banked to the right and dropped out of sight.
Where the bloody hell are you going? He thought, jumping as a voice blared out of the speakers around the ship.
“Standby for rockets. All hands to rocket stations.”
The voice started a count down and Smythe turned and waddled over to the group of parachutists. They were all dressed in the loose smocks and flared trousers with puttees tightly wrapped around the ankles that marked their regiment. On their heads, they proudly wore the dark green beret of their regiment, cinched to their head by the brass goggles they wore over their eyes.
Strapped to their chests were the especially adapted Lee-Metford Mk9 carbine rifles, bandoliers holding more magazines and shrapnels. In addition to this, each man also had a service revolver and at least one knife. The latter was not necessarily a weapon, but was often used to cut themselves free if required.
The countdown reached zero. The ship literally leapt forward. The pressure of the acceleration forced everyone to momentarily lean back, some of them taking a couple of steps before leaning forward into the wind.
Streaming a white contrail across the sky the ship raced faster than any other vehicle or flying creature in the known world. The noise was phenomenal as the escaping steam caused the rockets to scream like a thousand banshees.
The Parachutists whooped, cheered and stamped their feet in excitement. Smythe felt as though his face would split, my smile would give the Cheshire cat a run for its money.
He looked over at Gubbins, Christ, the man looks like death. Waddling over he leaned close to his friend’s ear.
“Remember, when the Leap Master gives the order step up to the leap hole. Cross your arms tight about your chest and leap in to the middle. If you only step off, your parachute pack will catch on the lip and you’ll smash your face on the other lip and spin out of control. Keep your legs crossed until the parachute deploys and then just enjoy the ride down!”
He gave Gubbins a pat on the shoulder, ignoring the sickly smile he got in return.
The sudden absence of noise heralded the real start of their mission. The Leap Master blew his whistle and shouted over the roar of the recently started diesel engines.
“Leapers ready! On my next whistle you will leap. From air to land, leading by example!”
The leapers strained forward as he drew breath and one by one leaped through the hole. The Parachutists were mixed amongst the cell members and Smythe watched Gubbins swallow hard as the man in front of him plummeted out of sight. “Ma Gubbins dint raise no angel, this just b'aint natural.” He had barely finished the sentence before Smythe gave him a hard shove.
*
When he was finally able to open his eyes, Gubbins regretted it instantly fuck my head! What the hell is that on my face? He took his hand away from his face and saw it was covered in blood. Damn trees. Why would someone invent a parachute you can’t bloody steer! He rolled over onto his knees and threw up as pain exploded in his head.
Wiping his mouth, he rocked back onto his knees and fumbled with the buckles across his chest. After much cursing, he lost all patience, pulled out his and cut himself free.
Where the bloody hell am I? He stood gingerly to see if he could fathom where to go. Looking up he strained his eyes trying to spot any air vehicles. Nothing. Shit, shit, shit. Where is everyone?
He raised his left arm to look at the chronocompass on his arm. He hadn’t been unconscious for more than a minute. Thank God, any longer and I’d be looking at retiring to Bedlam! He lifted his head and suddenly the world took an extra turn causing his stomach to flip, sick spraying out of his mouth. He recognised the signs, concussion. Slight, but it was going to hamper him.
The leap point had been to the west. The ship Calders had been on had been shot down north-northeast. Knowing that there was absolutely no point in waiting to be rescued, and looking like a prize prat if he was, he gathered his kit and set off.
Aether-held England looked and felt no different to earth-born England. There were still birds in the sky and the grass was green. It felt wrong somehow, for everything to be so damned normal. After all that he had heard, all that he had seen, he had expected the aether-born's land to show some sort of taint.
A twig snapped ahead of him and he dropped to the ground. Raised like any true Gubbins, he used the folds of the land to snake his way into the lee of a hedge. There was the sound of what seemed to be some sort of language. Slavs! He slowly raised his head to peer through the foliage. Two sets of legs were on the other side, the field next to him being that much higher.
Inch by slow inch he lowered his head and drew both of his knives. Belly crawling he moved along the hedge to find a gap through which he could slip. He poked his head slowly around the gap and ground level. Again, he counted two Slavs. Both of them carried the strange clockwork rifles that could put out so many more rounds than his bolt-action rifle could.
Both of the Slavs were looking into the distance, towards a column of smoke that rose lazily into the air. Bloody typical, the silly sods are right in my way. He drew air in slowly, welcoming the rush of adrenalin that threated to make his heart burst and his bladder leak. It’s not fear, I am not afraid, my body and mind are willing.
All the time he had been slowly crawling towards the Slavs. Ten feet away from them, he gathered his arms underneath his body and drew his right leg up as far as he could. Looking just past the slavs he surged forward. The first died as Gubbins double-punched him in the kidneys, each knife slipping easily into the flesh. As the Slav arched back, Gubbins hooked the first blade into the side of his neck, ripping it out violently. With a cough, a torrent of blood spilled out of the Slav’s mouth.
The other Slav was quick off the mark, turning and trying to bring his rifle up to bear. The barrel barely got to thigh height before Gubbins pushed it down and stamped onto the barrel, driving the rifle out of his opponent’s hands. The Slav started to scream in fear. Gubbins stabbed straight into the dark hole of the man’s mouth, cutting the scream off suddenly, before dropping to his knees and cutting into the femoral artery. He blinked as the blood sprayed onto his face, the warm saltiness making his stomach heave.
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He crouched as both men choked on their own blood, covering their mouths with his hands. They twitched as they quickly bled to death, their eyes pleading with him to help him. In less than two minutes, they were both dead. He rifled through their pockets and took as much ammunition as he could, slinging his Lee-Metford and picking up one of the clockwork rifles.
Better put as much distance “tween me'n vim. He strode off, head never ceasing to move.
*
Well if this doesn’t take the biscuit, it takes the whole damn tin! Smythe was positively livid. Strong winds had split the parachutists as they came down. He had quickly lost sight of Lady Ashdown and the others, landing in a small clearing with two of the parachutists.
“What are our orders sir?” both of the parachutists were privates and immediately looked to him for guidance.
“Mission objective is the same. We find that bastard traitor. Secondary objective is find everyone we can.” He stood and led them off. They froze as they heard shooting in the distance.
“Couple of miles. No idea as to whether it is one of ours, or if they are shooting at something else. Remain vigilant lads; we need to avoid trouble as much as possible.”
A bullet cracked past his ear and he dropped to the floor. One of the parachutists folded and dropped to the ground like a rag doll. More bullets zipped over their heads and hit the ground with dull thuds. Where the fuck are they!
He wracked his brains for the name of the trooper next to him.
“Moody! Can you see the bastards?”
“No sir!”
More shots rang out, the bullets thudding into the ground within the space of a second. Bastards are close, and they’re at ground level too otherwise they would have picked us off by now. One second, one hundred yards. Damned close!”
He plucked his parachutist helmet off, dropped it over the barrel of his rifle and slowly lifted it. There was a flurry of shots and the helmet twisted as it a bullet punched its way through.
Moody took a shot back, worked the action and fire again. “I’ve got one of the buggers sir! Eighty yards to our front, large tree, five yards right of that large bush. Watch and shoot!”
The sniper fired again, this time Smythe spotted the muzzle flash. Taking careful aim, he laid his sights on the bush and waited for another flash. There! He snapped off another shot, aiming a couple of inches above the flash. Silence.
He ejected the spent round and quickly rolled into another position in case the enemy had spotted him. Moody had also re-positioned.
Smythe repeated his earlier trick with the hat. Nothing. He risked a quick peek, nothing but silence. Mother Smythe raised her boys to be brave, so up I go!
He quickly stood up, ran forward five yards - long enough to say, “I’m up, he sees me, I’m down” rolling to the side to throw off any aim. Nothing.
“Moody, up and run five yards lad.” Moody repeated the process. Nothing. Bastards are either dead or really patient. Dead.
He stood up slowly and walked towards the bush. He cautiously pushed the branches aside. Inside were two Slavs. One had half of his face missing, clearly dead; the other had a wound to the chest and had rolled face up. Moody stepped forward and poked the man’s eyelid with his barrel. The man flinched and Moody fire straight into his eye, brains, blood and bone exploded out onto the leafy ground. “Both dead now sir.”
“Quite. Feel free to help yourself to his rifle and ammunition.” Smythe quickly ran through how to wind up the firing mechanism and eject the magazine of the weapon.
Unlike the Lee-Metford, which was a bolt-action rifle requiring the shooter to work the action in order to feed another round into the breech from a magazine in front of the trigger guard, the clockwork rifle fired for as long as the trigger was being squeezed, feeding rounds from a spring-fed magazine behind the trigger guard.
“We could do with a fee of these for the Parachutists sir.” it was clear that Moody wanted nothing more than to squeeze off a few rounds at the first opportunity. Smythe did not have the heart to tell him the powers that be had decided against such a thing for fear it would get onto the hands of separatists and mutineers. Typically short-sighted, but that’s what came from a paranoid government.
Saying nothing, he led Moody towards their objective.
*
Von Adin had fared much better than the others. He and Lady Ashdown had managed to land close to the other Parachutists and much closer to their objective.
Von Adin looked at his map and then compass. “We’re on target. That column of smoke marks where Calders” ship came down. I have no idea where the others are and we can’t afford to wait for them. That smoke will be drawing aether-born to this area like flies to shit.” he paused as the men around him chuckled. He had long known that humour was the best way to diffuse fear. Laugh at what you’re scared of and it becomes easier to cope.
They set off in a diamond formation with Lady Ashdown in the centre. Thanks to her parachutist uniform, she would most likely be mistaken for a boy soldier rather than a woman who needed protection.
Within five minutes, they had eyes on the target. The airship had been heavily damaged coming over the curtain and had steadily lost altitude whilst burning. Finally, it had crashed into a small wood, setting most of the trees in the near vicinity alight.
Smoke drifted across the field that separated them from the wreckage. Seeing that Von Adin wanted to advance across the open field and use the smoke for cover, the sergeant politely but firmly suggested that they act as poachers do, and follow the dividing hedge around until they got there. It would take longer but would be much safer and would conceal them from enemies to their rear, whilst allowing them to avoid sky lining themselves as they crossed the open space.
“Do you think that Calders drifted as far as we did?” asked Lady Ashdown.
“Hard to tell, he apparently jumped at a much lower altitude, probably to avoid being killed in the air. He should have drifted far less in that time.”
“Freeze!” the sergeant stood stock still, “Flyers. Looks like they’re quartering the area, searching for survivors. Slowly, down.” he followed his own order and slowly lowered himself to the ground on his belly.
Von Adin eeled his way over to him. They watched as the flyers circled the site of the crash, wheeling in lazy banks and taking advantage of the thermals to rise high in the sky with minimal effort.
A flare suddenly shot into the sky from nearly one hundred yards to their right.
“We’ve got the bastard! Kill the flyers. Now!” A barrage of rifle rounds and aether ripped into the two gargoyles and their riders. One grotesque managed to leap from his mount only to be shot as he drifted down on his parachute.
Less than ten seconds had passed from the flare being fired, to the flyers being killed. They leaped up and ran as fast as they could to where the flare had risen.
“There! He’s running for that copse!”
Calders was sprinting for the cover of a copse across the field.
“Pireman, take his leg!” the sergeant had spoken to the youngest, most child-like parachutist Von Adin had ever seen.
Pireman dropped to one knee and took careful aim with a gentle squeeze he sent the .303 calibre round flying through the air and through Calders knee, a puff of blood blossoming as the bottom part of his leg was blown clean off and he collapsed to the ground.
“Good shot lad! Extra rum ration for you!” They scooted forward quickly, covering the distance as fast as they could whilst maintaining cohesion and covering all angles.
Calders spat a stream of curses at them, their mothers and anyone else he could think of, spittle flying from his lips. The sergeant stepped forward and slammed his butt into Calders face.
“Sorry you should hear that kind of language my lady.”
She stepped forward and quickly healed him. “I’ve done enough to stop him going into shock or bleeding to death. I’ve got spoor now though. Any aether-born about on the ground will be able to see it and follow it. This is where we part company sergeant. The Hauptmann and I will split and head to the south-west, we’ll try to make it out there. We’ll give you thirty minutes and then set off ourselves.” God help us if we’re not able to get away. I won’t allow them to capture me again. I can’t!
*
Gubbins dropped to the floor at the sudden crackling of shots. He watched as aether rose up gracefully, before blowing chunks of flesh from a gargoyle.
That’ll be my lady! Some bloody right-hand man I am! He was just about to squeeze through the hedge and cross the lane when he heard squealing and the sound of hooves on the lane. Easing back, he watched as a patrol of five mounted Slavs trotted past towards the gunfire. There was a single shot and then everything was quiet bar the sound of receding hooves. He did a quick left right them shimmied through the hedge, dripped down into the lane and across and through the opposite hedge.
He had seen that the lane confined straight on for a couple hundred yards before making a tight turn to be right. The hedge bordering the field that he was now in did the same, but there was a rise in the land. Risking everything, he sprinted across the field at an angle. Right on the bloody money bay! By running across the field, he had managed get at least three hundred yards ahead of the cavalry.
He lay down at a good spot and placed a number of shrapnels down in front of him as well as three magazines of thirty rounds apiece for the clockworks.
Have to be clever with this. As soon as the lead hog is level with me, I need to pitch the first shrapnel to their rear, the second to the front.
The one to the rear should kill at least one and drive the others forward onto the second. That’ll mean two dead and the middle ones shitting themselves and not knowing which way to turn.
A third to the rear will drive them on and in front of my sights. Blast through both magazines on the clockworks, reload the second and give them a second magazine. If they’re not all dead by then, scarper like a poacher with buckshot up his ring piece.
Plan made, he took out his hip flask and took a swig of cyder, sighed and took hold of two shrapnels.
It felt like the cavalry took an age to draw close. The Slavs were dressed in dark green uniforms with long coats that flared out at the bottoms. On their heads their wore hats that resembled those worn by hussars or the Cossacks he had one seen in a newspaper after the Emperor Vampyre Rasputin had been defeated in the Battle of Moscow a few years ago.
He rammed the top of the first shrapnel down hard, igniting the fuse and lobbed it over the heads of the cavalry. Three seconds later, he did the same to the front.
His timing was impeccable. The second shrapnel was still in the air when the first landed, rolled under a hog and blew its guts out. The Slavs reacted instantly. Being cavalry they obviously knew there was no chance they could turn and fight in such a narrow space, as such they needed an open space. They pushed forward and onto the second shrapnel. It exploded, blowing the snout off the first hog and killing its rider in the process.
By this time, the third shrapnel was in the air. The fuse was short and it detonated whilst four feet of the ground. Shards of metal cut through the fine cloth of the cavalry, wounding them and their mounts. They spurred them forward and straight towards his position.
There was no marksmanship involved when he opened fire. He held the trigger down tightly and stitched the rounds across the hog and into the rider. The first magazine not only took the first mount and its rider, but the second mount as well. He grabbed the second rifle and sprayed the rider as he struggled to his feet. Shifting his aim Gubbins found himself on a near perfect front-on shot and walked the rounds up the last hog’s snout and into its rider’s belly.
Silence. Then the low bubbling moan of a man trying to breathe through shredded lungs. He reloaded both rifles and dropped down into the lane. He jogged to each rider in turn and shot them in the head to finish them off. He gave himself a few seconds to root through their belongings and gather additional food and ammunition before heading towards the objective once more.
*
The sound of shrapnels going off startled Smythe. “Sounds like some of ours are giving the enemy short shrift!”
“Do we go and help out sir?” Moody’s head was never still, constantly shifting and looking for potential threats.
“Bloody right we do lad!” they double-timed, carrying their rifles at port, ready to bring them to bear in an instant.
*
Lady Ashdown looked around at her, she and Von Adin were just about to start when they too heard the explosions and the chattering of the clockwork rifles.
“We had best move, I don’t want the spoor to lead any aether-born to Calders.” They set off at a jog, keeping to the hedges but also at a comfortable pace that would allow them to run for miles.
Without warning, a war hound slammed into Von Adin, the both of them crashing to the ground. Its handler leapt through the gap in the hedge and punched Lady Ashdown on the back of the neck. Stunned, she staggered away, desperately trying to Pull on aether. A wicked hook whipped her head to the side, and a follow-up cross snapped her head back and she tumbled to the floor. More Slavs poured through the gap and quickly trussed her up. An officer stepped forward and snapped a torque around her neck, cutting himself and pushing aether to form the bond.
*
Von Adin had enough worries of his own as he struggled to keep the hound’s jaws from biting down on his face. He pummeled the dog, hot saliva dripping onto his face and into his mouth as he struggled to draw breath. Finally, he had enough charge to fry the dog’s brain, killing it in an instant.
Feet crashed into his body as Slavs tried to truss him up. He kicked and struggled with all of his might, punching into pressure points on the inside of their ankles and knees, attacking weak points whenever he could. Their blows started to tell however and he could feel himself starting to lose consciousness.
The next he knew, the beating had stopped. There was a heavy weight on him. He willed his eyes to open and focus and stared into the lifeless eyes of a Slav. A shadow reached down and pulled the body off from him. “Bejaysus, sure and you’re a sight. The langers proper kicked the living shite outer yeh!” The man’s brogue was so thick that it took Von Adin a few seconds to realise that he was speaking English.
Shaking his head, Von Adin struggled to his feet, with the help of the man. Looking around he saw a number of other men, many dead Slavs, and no sign of Lady Ashdown.
“Pól o’Laoghaire at your service. These are my people, and these,” he kicked a dead Slav in the head, “are pieces of shite that don’t deserve to be here.” The men were stripping the Slavs of everything they had, swapping clothing that did not fit, and bickering good-naturedly over the weapons.
“Danke for the help. Are you aether-born?”
“Aye, you could say that. We’re the an lucht siúil, the walking people.” he sighed at the confused look on Von Adin’s battered and bruised face. “Jaysus, were what you gadje call Gypsies, tinkers, travellers, pikeys. Turns out were fey too.”
“Did you see a lady with me? Have you got her?” Von Adin’s heart pounded in his chest as he remembered Lady Ashdown being struck to the ground and hog-tied.
“Aye, the rest of these langers took her. Would you be meaning to get her back?” a calculating look had entered his eyes, “Would you be willing to pay for a few strong lads who like to fight?”