Astrid and Lyudmyla were trapped in the western gardens. Their soldiers formed a defensive square, firing by half-platoons into the terraces around them, systematically blowing away the enemy’s cover, but dissidents swarmed over those walls, taking shots at loyalists whenever they felt safe enough to raise their heads. Even worse, enemy cavalry circled overhead in a giant caracole, diving close enough to loose a lancer bolt before rising out of range. Lyudmyla hada small sharpshooter section waiting for the riders to close, but there were not enough of them. Too many of the enemy cavalry troopers escaped on each pass.
In the absolute center, next to the sharpshooters, I saw Astrid, leaning heavily against Lyudmyla, her arm in a sling, her face a mass of bruises, but clearly alive.
I did not wait to reassemble my troops, but couched my greatsword and charged.
These were no unsuspecting prison guards or recently roused soldiers. These were the traitorous Imperial Guard. They were not to be taken unawares. One traitor lowered her swordstaff and spurred her hoversteed towards me, intending to skewer me. Instead, I barrel-rolled, parried her blade with mine, then slid the zeroblade down her swordstaff, through her hoversteed, and through her pelvis. She screamed as she fell from the sky.
I passed through the swarm of flying foes without another chance to strike. My enemies were too far away or dodged out of my path. I looped around for another pass and saw that my squadron had followed me. They formed a flying wedge behind me, mirroring my movements like a flock of starlings. The enemy broke off from attacking Astrid and formed their own wedge to countercharge.
Cavalry charges rarely led to midair collisions. With all the anti-collision software crammed in their processers, it’s quite difficult to make two hoversteeds crash head-on. Instead, one line usually breaks before contact, leading to a chase. If neither side breaks, then the two formations pass through one another to wheel about and attack again, or the formations dissolve into a chaotic melee, favoring the larger unit with the best bladesmen. I wanted to stay in formation and avoid a furball – as that would benefit the enemy. Their lines were sloppy, their ranks uneven, but there were twice asmany dissidents as loyalists. Furious, I gritted my teeth and dove headlong into their countercharge.
My greatsword swung in sweeping arcs, controlling as much space as I could. I dug the bottom out of an enemy hoversteed, but otherwise failed to land any blows. I was too small, my reach too short compared to these massive demons. My cavalry was doing better than me, but not good enough. I took stock of the developing melee: if I didn’t do something, we would lose.
And then I saw him. Count Gerasimov, Selnikov’s right-hand demon, with red stripes on his gorget and gauntlets, laughing as he impaled one of my soldiers and drove them from the saddle, shaking the poor loyalist loose to fall to the ground.
Red haze clouded my eyes, and before I could strategize and produce a reasonable plan, my mouth went ahead without my brain and bellowed, “Gerasimov, you treacherous slime. Face me, coward!”
My words must have been louder than I’d thought, for the sounds of battle faded. Gerasimov slowly looked over at me, his initial surprised expression melting into a pleased grin. “Run along, little rabbit. You do not belong here.”
I didn’t dignify his words with a response. Instead, I gripped my greatsword in both hands, clenched Tilly with my knees, and shot forwards with no other goal than to take that smug fucker’s horned head clean off his shoulders. Gerasimov’s smile widened, then he pulled a lancer. I barely had time to dive before the sizzling bolt shot over my shoulder, close enough that I felt the heat. Another bolt flashed by, and I turned sideways, reaching with my blade. For the second time in as many moments, Gerasimov’s eyes went wide. He leaned backwards, avoiding the tip of my zeroblade by centimeters as I zoomed past, but as I curled around, his face hardened and he kicked his steed into motion after me.
It was only then that I realized what I had done – challenged a much stronger cavalryman with longer reach and far more experience than myself to a one-on-one duel. It was the heroic and honorable thing to do, but not the smart thing.
My brain regained control of my body, and I leaned low over Tilly’s handlebars to flee.
“Come back, you lily-skinned coward,” Count Gerasimov called. I saw him following me in Tilly’s rearview. I dove into the gardens, searching for an edge amid the terrain. Tilly and I hurdled over a hedge, then swung in a tight circle around a topiary, hoping to surprise him with a charge from the flank, but Gerasimov was ready for that. He parried my blow with little effort.
“I thought you wanted this fight. Now find you lack the strength?” Gerasimov laughed, pursuing me again. I juked and wove among the trees of a charming little wilderness. Gerasimov followed. I was able to keep out of his blade’s reach, but how long until he grew tired and reloaded one of his lancer pistols?
The lancers. I looked down. Tilly still had two pistols in her saddle holsters.
The garden’s wall came up fast. I grimaced and pulled into a near-vertical climb.Let’s see how maneuverable your lumbering Imperial steed is, I thought. The Imperials built their steeds for shock charges, not light dragoon work like Commonwealth models, and while Gerasimov was mounted on a custom-built black charger, I was on Tilly, fully upgraded with the best parts the Royal Guards Armory could provide.
I flew to the side of a cylindrical tower, Gerasimov in hot pursuit, and spiraled up its face. I kept the count close enough to catch me, but far enough away he couldn’t get a good shot. Tilly ate up the altitude, devouring meters and sending us higher. I couldn’t spare a glance to see how Astrid’s battle wasgoing, but if any of those combatants had stopped fighting to watch me, they would have a wonderful view.
And then I ran out of tower. Just as I had planned.
Tilly curled up to the pinnacle of the tower’s roof, rocketing off the peak as fast as she could. I cut Tilly’s thrust coil and repulsor plate and pulled her nose back and over. Our inertia propelled us upwards, but we rotated through the air until I was fully upside-down. I reached down, grabbed both lancer pistols, and pointed them straight over my head.
Gerasimov popped into view, one tri-barreled pistol drawn. He drew a bead on me as I pointed both of my lancers at him, and simultaneously, we opened fire.
The air shimmered between us as lancer bolts split the sky. I felt Tilly shudder, heard her shriek of pain as she took a bolt, but one of my bolts disintegrated Gerasimov’s left aerovane, another took off his arm, and as he looked at me in shock, his hoversteed rolling over, I put one more bolt directly into his mount’s main power cell.
Gerasimov and his steed were consumed in an angry orange fireball. The shockwave bounced Tilly and me upwards, and when it faded, nothing remained of the traitorous count but black smoke and debris.
I dropped the pistols to hang by their saddle cords as I frantically bent to Tilly’s display. Her control linkages were shot. She lacked thrust or repulsor control. Airbrakes showed functional and her main power cell was intact, but we were two hundred meters in the air, and Tilly had become a flying brick.
Tilly’s aerovanes were still functional, so I pulled her upright. Unpowered hoversteeds have a terrible glide ratio, but it was all I could think to do. We began to fall, picking up speed as we angled towards the garden. I tried to steer us towards a decorative fountain, hoping the water would cushion the impact. I braced.
At the last second, Tilly took control from me. She nosed herself straight into the angle of our dive and activated her airbrakes. Jets of superheated air slammed forwards, blasting the water out of our way and bringing us to a near-complete stop before we dropped the last two meters to the ground.
The impact was bone-jarring, but my pain went unheeded. I needed to tend to Tilly.
“Tilly, run full diagnostic. Tell me the damage. How bad is it?” I ordered, trying to keep calm.
Tilly’s monitor lit up with a litany of red. I didn’t have time to read all the wrong before the words ‘CRITICAL SYSTEMS FAILURE – INITIATE EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN’ flashed, and Tilly’s screen went dark. Her engine sputtered to a halt, and the gentle throb of her powered systems whined into silence.
“Tilly, no.” It was stupid, but all I could think to say.
