The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Surprisingly, no one had come forth to accuse him or his company of crimes or demand justice. He had not requested amnesty, but suspected that the Shadow Folk were advocating on his behalf—or else gambling wildly by opening the exits. He could not imagine Enforcer Ardent risking the latter, so it had to be the former.

  He hadn't seen her since the deal, but that was the burden of command. Until she had a mission for Blaze Company or some news that should be delivered personally, he expected she would be scarce. Her agents were ever-present and answered his and his men's questions with polite neutrality, and for the moment he supposed that was enough.

  It chafed to not be in control, to not quite understand, but he'd been in worse straits while in the Crimson Army, and the Sapphire before that. Captains and outpost commanders were not privy to the business of generals and emperors, and could only await their orders.

  Such things were easy to tell himself while he was among his men, or dealing with the Shadow Folk and the locals. Not so easy when he retreated to his makeshift office at the end of the bunk-area and tried to put his thoughts into writing. He'd been given several logbooks and quills and ink, as well as what documents the Shadow Folk had saved from the burning garrison, and spent his supposed downtime poring over them and trying to fill in the gaps. Instead of focusing his mind, though, the privacy invariably made it drift into darkness.

  He'd sold his men. He'd sold himself. The Light was gone and he'd bowed to the Shadow, and what did it matter if it was different from the Dark? What did any of it matter? His empire was rotten, his family thought him dead, his beloved army was in the hands of a lunatic, and his pendant—the only thing that kept him human—was broken.

  Not completely. Not yet. But he'd scrutinized it fiercely against the time-candles' light, and the crack in the crystal was unmistakable. Whether it had happened in the Shadows' hands or during the garrison fight, or even before that, he couldn't guess. But the crack was real, and in silence and solitude the voices slipped through to nag him with their wordless threats.

  He kept drawing them in the logbook. Not on purpose, just randomly, whenever his thoughts strayed and the whispers slipped in. Distorted faces crowded the margins, their familiarity itching at his mind. Somewhere inside this tomb of a body were their names, their memories, their deaths, but he refused to seek them. Unlike the Bahlaeran militiamen, they weren't his fault.

  The only time they let him be was when he rewrote the Sapphire Eye handbook. It had been lost in the fire along with the rest of his personal effects, but he'd long since memorized it. Perhaps it was that link to his pre-sarisigi past that kept the voices at bay—or perhaps the criticism he turned upon it, for he frequently found himself scratching out full rules. Not because he'd made errors but because he'd realized that he no longer followed them.

  When had he changed? When he'd learned the truth? Some time during his twelve-year false exile? Or back then, at the moment his lifeline snapped?

  He didn't know how to feel about it. He wanted to talk to someone about his new nature—Houndmaster Vrallek, perhaps—but couldn't. There wasn't enough privacy in the infirmary and Vrallek was still too weak to move elsewhere. Scryer Yrsian had offered to chat at any time, but he knew she'd advise mindwork, and he didn't want anyone's fingers in him.

  So he reworked the rules of his life until they made sense to him. He met the locals, counseled his officers, reorganized the roster, paced. Watched the progress his men made in patching together proper armor. Supervised when needed—not so much anymore, now that there was work to occupy their time. And when he got tired of all of that, he wrote letters: to his wife, to his parents, to the families of the men he'd lost.

  The Shadow Folk would deliver them. He didn't doubt their honesty in that.

  He was paused in the midst of one, quill in hand and gaze locked on the candle-flame, when someone down the bunkroom said, “Psst. Captain.”

  Turning in his seat, he found a scout there—Scout Telren, perhaps. It was still accursedly difficult to tell them apart. “Yes?”

  “It's the Shadow lady. You—“

  He came out of his chair fast enough to startle the scout. Not his intent, but many people were twitchy around him these days—mostly the specialists. He found that ironic. “News? A mission?” he said.

  “Don't know, sir. She only ever talks to you.”

  Which wasn't quite true; she'd had extended chats with the mages. But it was interesting nonetheless.

  “Go on,” he told the scout, the path between bunks too narrow for two. Heads were lifting from pillows all down the line, questioning eyes seeking him in the faint candlelight. He made a mollifying gesture and followed the scout out, anticipation tingling in his chest.

  Her eyes met his as he entered the main hall. Beside her, more Shadow agents were hauling in crates and boxes, aided by the soldiers who'd been lounging nearby; that barrier, at least, had gone down between their groups. Other men were setting aside coats of mail and repair-tools and drifting over, attracted as always to any sort of change.

  “Captain,” she said, inclining her head properly as he came closer.

  “Enforcer,” he replied. “More equipment?”

  “And some recoveries.” She nodded toward the pushcart emerging from the door, and he blinked at its familiar cargo: Crimson footlockers. Some had the Blaze insignia roughly stenciled on top; others still bore those for their former companies, a mark of how quickly Blaze Company had been thrown together.

  “Not all of them, unfortunately. And not yours,” she added with an unexpected grimace of apology. “We've also got a bin of miscellaneous personal items from lockers that were busted or burned; you'll have to sort those out yourselves. Some might be a bit chewed-on. The eiyets didn't want to give them up.”

  He didn't know what to say. She'd salvaged his official papers, yes, but those were a given for any spy to snatch. To rescue his men's lockers—their personal belongings—from the fire and the Dark was an entirely different kind of act.

  “Thank you,” he managed finally. “We appreciate your effort.”

  The look she gave him was inscrutable, her scar twisting any curve of her lips into a sneer. “You're welcome. Now for business. The Crimsons at Old Crown are up to something, we're not sure what. We haven't been bothering them—too busy moving people out of their grasp, plus they've warded the compounds to the hilt. But our spies have seen portals open on the grounds, more soldiers and mages coming in, and their raiding teams are getting close to our tunnels. The Regency has given me permission to start you on your job.”

  “Capturing Crimsons.”

  She nodded. “From what we can tell, all their patrols are human. We saw them burning corpses after Midwinter and figure those were specialists like yours. They might have some in reserve though, so we'll proceed with caution. We don't want to kill anyone; standard policy but there's also a danger to it now that we're in the Long Dark. If I'd've known this would happen, I wouldn't have dared a Dark bite on your group. I wish we'd talked sooner.”

  “So do I,” he said, and realized he meant it. Not just for the men he'd lost, but because the Shadow Folk were not as he'd believed. Nothing was.

  “You made an offer, back in the cells with your hostages. I was too smug to take it.” She shrugged black-armored shoulders. “I could have saved them, and the other militiamen you captured, but I didn't. I apologize.”

  He stared at her, nonplussed. After a moment, she went on, “We'll take ten or so of your men for this first run. No specialists or mages; they can do their part later. Hopefully you've got enough armor ready, and we have weapons for them.”

  “How long to prepare?”

  “A mark, maybe. We think we know where this patrol is going but we need time to get into position.”

  He nodded, running over the roster in his mind. No specialists meant the second infantry platoon was out. The first infantry was also sprinkled with them, but they could be weeded; however, a third of those men wer
e from the old Long Road platoon, which had been devastated by the Potter's Row ambush. He wouldn't fling them into the breach first. The archers were also out—not enough front-line experience.

  That left the third infantry, which he'd cobbled together from all the unhomed soldiers—lancers included.

  “I'll give you third infantry section two,” he said. “Corporals Virn and Wolfsden, and Lieutenant Linciard and Sergeant Kenner to supervise. They're all on-shift now. Twelve in total.”

  “Sounds fine. Kit them up and we'll take them from right here.”

  With a nod, Sarovy turned and scanned the crowd. Both corporals were right there, grinning sheepishly, and he realized they'd been listening in before they were even named. “Get Linciard and Kenner and your men,” he told them, and they nodded and bolted off.

  As he waited, Sarovy took a moment to scan the supplies that had just been brought. The footlockers had already been unloaded, a cluster of Blazes going over them and digging through the miscellaneous bin, but the other crates were still being cracked. Two were packed to the brim with more armor-parts plus a layer of leather-wrapped tool-kits; a third contained stacks of cushions, some rather threadbare, plus more towels and bricks of soap. In the fourth were a selection of wooden cases. He opened one to find a game-board and pieces tucked securely into carved slots.

  “We know about waiting,” said the Enforcer by his shoulder. “Don't want to drive your men crazy with it.”

  “Yours should join us,” he forced himself to say. Cooperation, integration—he'd pushed that on his men, so he had to accept it himself. “Break the ice so we can work together better.”

  “You're sure? We're quite competitive.” She sounded amused.

  “We have a few card-sharps. You won't find us pushovers.”

  “I'd hope not. You play anything?”

  He slanted a look at her. “Turnabout, sometimes.”

  “Really.” She wore an odd little smile, her shadowmarked eyes unreadable. “We should have a game.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Quick movement caught his eye from the bunkroom hall: Lieutenant Linciard hustling out with Wolfsden on his heels. Sarovy frowned. He hadn't seen Linciard among the bunks, not that he should have been there since he was on shift, so unless he'd been visiting with their neighbors past the infirmary, he'd probably been with Rallant.

  Again. They needed to talk about that.

  The rest of that section had already arrived, Sergeant Kenner and Virn now in evidence, so Sarovy broke away from the Enforcer to lay out their instructions. Padding was shrugged on, armor gathered from the industrious soldiers who'd been piecing it together. Linciard avoided his gaze even more than usual, heightening his irritation, but he wouldn't let that scuttle the plan.

  The Shadow Folk were setting up a screen nearby, blocking the light to create a black door in the wall. Just as it resolved, Scryer Yrsian's mind-voice said, 'Wait!'

  Sarovy glanced toward the exit hall and saw the scryer bustling out from it. Since Greymark's departure, she and the Cray girl had been rooming privately down that way, among what seemed to be Shadow storage areas. “You can't send them off without me!” she declared as she stomped over, clearly annoyed. “Months we've been at this, captain, and suddenly you want to deploy a group without an earhook?”

  He frowned. “They were confiscated.”

  “I was working on them!” With a huff, she plunged a hand into a pocket-slit in her dress, then pulled out a long wooden case that by no means should have fit in there. She popped it open and offered it to him. “Ten. The Enforcer has decided to keep the one she took.”

  “I'd like to hear what you're up to,” said Enforcer Ardent.

  Sarovy raised his brows, but took the case. It wasn't as if they had privacy anyway. “These will work in the Shadow Realm?”

  “No, but whenever the wearers come out, they'll reconnect to me.”

  Nodding, he removed the one most thickly covered in runes and slid it into place behind his ear. Immediately the connection clicked, the tickle of mentalism first fierce then fading to a negligible hum.

  “Linciard, Kenner,” he said, holding out the case. “And temporarily Virn, Wolfsden. You know what I do and do not want to hear.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Join us in my office, Mako,” said Enforcer Ardent as the men took the earhooks. “I want to discuss how we'll do this, going forward.”

  “I'd like my own office, thanks,” said the scryer, hands on hips.

  “Yes, yes. Is the team ready?”

  Sarovy glanced to Linciard, who'd been checking their gear. At his nod, he said, “Yes.”

  “Link hands, then. Ticuo, Zhahri, take them through.”

  The two Shadow lieutenants gestured for the soldiers to follow. Sarovy watched tensely as first the woman, then Linciard, then the whole chain of infantry disappeared into that darkness. The Illanite man Ticuo went through last; in his wake, the shadow lightened.

  “Let's go,” said the Enforcer. “It won't take them long to travel.” Then she started up the exit hall to the ramps and stairs and the floors above.

  Sarovy followed at a quick clip, the scryer trotting at his heels. They went up several turns of the stairs, past a mix of concrete and hewn rock, before passing through an open metal door into a chamber swarming with Shadow Folk. In the orange glow of wall-lights and pole-mounted spheres, Sarovy saw rows of shelving stretching out into infinity, stacked with crates and chests and barrels of all sizes and labeled in an unknown spiky script. Desks and benches ran along the nearest walls, occupied by black-clad agents sorting, cataloging and packing all manner of materials, from candles to ceramics to crossbow bolts; more agents wheeled pushcarts back and forth, delivering papers and trays of parts and picking up finished crates.

  He'd seen these Shadow depots before, but never populated—and never this big.

  “This way,” said the Enforcer, and led them down the line of agents to a door inset between two stations. Through it was a tiny, barren office, three folding chairs set up around an inkwood desk. It and the side-table were covered in papers, maps, a counting frame and other business paraphernalia; the only unusual object was the long cloth-wrapped lump that topped the side-table's stack.

  The Enforcer dropped into the furthest chair, motioning for them to sit. Mako did; Sarovy hesitated, not quite comfortable with this setup, but complied. The Enforcer pushed aside some papers, then tapped the map she'd cleared. “We want more than just your familiarity with Imperials. You used some interesting tactics against us on the coast, and here when you started taking our warehouses. Like you'd spied out the structures ahead of time—not to mention your piking portals.”

  Mako smirked.

  “We want you to do that for us. Our standard tactics are useless in mage-lit or warded areas; yours aren't. Right now, we're sending your team to an ambush-point in our territory that we expect the Crimsons will pass; that's the only way we can hit them when they're with mages. Don't worry,” she said as Sarovy opened his mouth, “we've assigned metal-folk to your guys to bear the brunt of their spells. If you have a way to bypass other mages' blockades, though, and break the wards or snuff the lights so we can move in behind them...”

  Mako pursed her lips, then said, “Probably. It's not likely they'll set up a teleport-block. That would hamper them more than us, and even assuming they know we're on your side, they won't expect us to portal in at their backs. Military mages just aren't used for that.”

  “Crimson soldiers and mages don't often collaborate,” Sarovy confirmed.

  “If they're with the patrols, they're probably Warders or Evokers,” Mako added. “Dangerous but none too subtle. Warders might take some bashing, but we can enchant you some splitters and protective gear. I'll get the boys working on it.”

  Sarovy grimaced, remembering the Warder he'd been assigned during his first excursion to Bahlaer—Jegen. That young man hadn't stood up to much bashing. “Are we capturing the mages too?”


  “If we can,” said the Enforcer. “No love lost between us and them, but the less blood in the shadows, the better.”

  “If I might ask...why? Policy, you said, but also danger...”

  Enforcer Ardent sighed and sat back in her chair. “You've met the eiyets, captain. The little black creatures that tried to pick you apart. They have strong feelings about bloodshed. Even a small amount agitates them, and too much can send them into a frenzy. I've seen them tear bleeding agents to shreds for no good reason. That's part of why we want you—not as targets,” she clarified quickly, “but because you're combat-trained. Used to heavy armor. Less likely to get injured. We Enforcers fight, yes, but only when necessary; our actual job is operational security.”

  “You were quick enough to come after us with blades.”

  “That was a mistake. Some of my agents took initiative out of anger. It's our policy not to put ourselves in that position, but after the crush-incident, you understand...”

  “Yes.”

  “That's why I'm leading this operation instead of an Illanite. And still, I overreacted. We could have done better, made less of a mess.”

  He nodded. He understood that well enough.

  “The only difficulty,” said Mako, “is knocking the mages out before they call Sanctuary. With no teleport-block, we can't stop them from doing it, and they're probably tethered inside a warded compound.”

  The Enforcer raised her brows. “Sanctuary… What's that, then?”

  “A Scryer trick originally, but everyone gets trained in it now. Bind yourself to a ritual space, and you can yank yourself there at will as long as neither point is teleport-blocked. If they are, you'll just brain yourself on the block.”

  “Could you set a block around the enemy's compound?”

  “What, and lure them out, trick them into smashing their faces against it?” Mako smirked, then shook her head. “Technically yes, but I'm carrying too many spells right now. I don't have the energy to dedicate to it. I'd need at least two more mages in the gestalt—Izelina doesn't count. She can't even channel yet. With a gestalt of six, we could prepare some blocking assemblages and a modular array, 'port in and set them up on the fly, but we'd all be in the field with our focus on the spell. Another gestalt as backup would help. Maybe Voorkei or Presh have contacts...”