by Aaron Hodges
Not that their overseers cared. The general certainly hadn’t chosen his best to care for the Perfugian recruits. The three Flumeerens assigned to watch them had set a table in the shadow of the cliff and appeared to be busy playing cards. As Lukys watched, one even took a swig from a silver flask.
At least they didn’t seem to notice his late arrival. Taking a pickaxes and barrow from the pile, he moved to join the others.
“Peasant!” Lukys flinched as a shout came from amongst the recruits on the other side of the quarry. He lowered his head and pulled back his axe to swing at the wall, but the voice came again. “Finally decided to join us, have you?”
Stones crunched as someone approached. Lukys’s eyes flickered closed and he released the breath he’d been holding. It seemed there would be no avoiding this confrontation.
“Dale,” he murmured, turning to face the recruit. “What do you want?”
“Who do you think you are, peasant?” Dale snarled as he came to a stop in front of Lukys. “Sneaking off, avoiding work. Think you’re better than the rest of us, do you?”
“I—”
“You’re trash, you hear me?” Dale spat, stepping closer and gesturing with his pickaxe. “You’re nobody!”
Lukys reeled back, raising his hands in front of him in a gesture of peace, though the pickaxe he held distracted from the gesture. He was surprised at his fellow’s reaction. Dale and his friends had been cold, even cruel, before. Now though…the man’s face was pure rage. It shone from his eyes, showed in the veins bulging from his forehead, in the clenching of his jaw. Lukys could not understand it.
“You’re right!” he said quickly, eyes on the point of Dale’s axe. “I am nobody. But Romaine is teaching me to fight.” Lukys hesitated, thinking fast. “He could teach you as well.”
“I already know how to fight, peasant,” Dale snapped. “Do I need to show you?” He swung his pickaxe in a lazy arc, forcing Lukys to jump backwards out of range.
He stumbled and almost fell. Anger touched him then and he surged back up…
…just as Dale thrust out with the hilt of his pickaxe. The blow caught Lukys square in his midriff and drove the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping. Laughter sounded in his ears.
The sound cut through the pain like a knife, igniting his rage. Finally he managed to suck in a breath and forced himself to straighten. Dale stood across from him, hands raised as though to accept the cheers of his friends. The smug smile on his lips begged Lukys to take a swing.
Standing almost six feet tall, Dale towered over Lukys. He stood with his feet directly beneath him, just as Romaine had the day before. Clenching his fists, Lukys charged.
Dale saw the danger just as Lukys’s shoulder struck him in the chest. Despite the size difference, momentum was on Lukys’s side and the other man went down like a sack of bricks, the pickaxe flying from his hands. Grinning, Lukys stepped back, satisfied he’d taught the larger man a lesson…
“Bastard!” Roaring, Dale staggered to his feet, face purpled with rage.
Lukys flinched, fear suddenly touching him as his foe swept up the pickaxe and started towards him.
“Enough.” A man stepped between them, hands raised to either side, as though to hold them back.
For a moment, Lukys thought the overseers had finally intervened. Then he realised the man wore the same uniform as himself, the royal blue of Perfugia. The newcomer looked from Lukys to Dale, hazel eyes hard. Light brown hair hung down to his shoulders and he was well-built, shorter than Dale, but no less muscular. It was another second before Lukys recognised the man as another of the noble born recruits—the one he’d knocked over that first day in the plaza, in fact.
A growl came from Dale but the sight of the newcomer gave him pause.
“Travis?” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “The Fall are you doing?” He tried to shove past, but the recruit held him back.
“I said, that’s enough, Dale,” Travis said, calmly pushing the taller man back.
“The bastard struck me!” Dale spluttered, eyes bulging, teeth bared. He tried to push past Travis again but was rebuffed.
“You insulted him, struck him without warning. You expected the man to roll over?” He waved a hand. “No, never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Anger shone in his eyes. “Don’t you see, Dale? You cling to this belief that we’re superior. But look where we are! We all failed, or we wouldn’t be in this cursed place.” He looked away, seeming to fix on some distant point, beyond the city, beyond the river. “And now that we’re here,” he continued, his voice suddenly low, “we have greater concerns than your bruised ego.”
His words seemed to drain the anger from the other man. For a moment, Dale stood there, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched. Then in a rush he turned away. Lukys let out a breath as he watched the man stalk across the quarry. His heart was pounding in his ears and he was gripping the hilt of his pickaxe so tight his hand had turned white.
Finally he shook himself and turned to his rescuer. The hardness evaporated from Travis’s face as their eyes met, replaced by an easy smile. Stepping forward, he offered his hand.
“The name’s Travis,” he said. “Now, did I hear something about a mighty warrior of Calafe offering to train us?”
15
The Warrior
Romaine let out a sigh as he lowered himself onto a boulder and sat back to watch the recruits at their practice. Two weeks had passed since his return from the south, and somehow he now found himself the unofficial instructor for the Perfugians. He now had almost two dozen men and women under his wing; half of the regiments surviving number.
Watching them struggle through the drills he’d set, Romaine tried to keep his face impassive. It was times like these that he was convinced the Gods still watched over humanity, if only to make mischief for their own amusement. How else could he have ended up here, when all he’d wanted was to be alone?
A sigh slipped from his lips and he closed his eyes for a moment, responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders. When he opened them again, he found Cara standing nearby, one eyebrow raised. He cursed inwardly to have been caught in a moment of frailty, but gestured to join him on the boulder anyway. Their numbers had forced Romaine to move the training to the central plaza, where his activities would be known to all. He was still waiting for the general to come asking after him.
“You’re tired,” Cara said. An uncharacteristic frown creased her face.
Romaine grunted by way of answer.
“Do you not sleep?” the young woman pressed, frown lines deepening.
“I sleep,” Romaine replied, though perhaps that was an exaggeration.
He had taken to sitting atop the walls most evenings, watching the darkness. Waiting was not amongst his talents. He longed to return south, to fight back against the creatures that had stolen his nation, that had taken everything from him.
But while the general had resumed scouting this side of the Illmoor, there had been no more crossings. Fogmore had not even found a new ship capable of making the journey.
Silence fell between them and Romaine turned his gaze back on the recruits. The clack-clacking of practice spears rang across the square, drawing the eyes of bystanders, though none had complained so far about the commotion. He’d separated the recruits into two groups to practice drills with shield and spear. One side would attack, running through a series of predetermined movements, while the other matched with the required blocks.
“They seem…slow,” Cara said beside him.
Romaine chuckled. “Shouldn’t you be out there practicing with them?”
Cara shrugged. She had continued practicing with Lukys at first, but as more and more recruits came asking for Romaine’s help, she’d joined them less and less. At least her arm seemed to be healing well. Lukys still changed the bandages regularly, and the last time the bruising had almost vanished.
Silence fell between them again, and shaking his head, Romaine watched as the
recruits ran through another drill. Lukys stood in the middle, wielding his spear against a taller man they called Travis. The exercise started with a high stab for the opponent’s throat, followed by a spinning riposte, and finally an attacking thrust from the enemy’s shield. The two performed the drill well with only minor faults, but even so, Romaine could see Cara was right.
“It’s not enough,” he murmured, unable to keep the words to himself. “I can’t help them. Against ordinary soldiers, with a few more weeks or months, maybe I could make a decent fighting force out of them. But against the Tangata…”
“They are getting better,” Cara replied, glancing at him. “More than you realise.”
As she spoke, a grunt came from nearby as a recruit crashed to the ground. It was one from the attacking group. The thrust of his opponent’s shield had caught him in the chin and knocked him off-balance. Romaine let out a sigh.
“You were saying?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Cara said after a long pause, “maybe you’re wrong.” A smile lit her face. “But it makes no difference to them. Somehow, you’ve given them hope. Can’t you see it in their faces?”
Romaine looked at the Perfugians again, but as the drill continued, more mistakes bled into their exercises. Frustration began to take hold. He sighed.
“I see only fear.” He should not have been confessing such things to the woman, but he was in over his head, needed to speak. “Only desperation.” He swallowed. “I’ve heard them, after these sessions, whispering to the Gods, thanking them for sending me.” His eyes stung but he forced the words out. “If I have given them hope, it is only a false one.”
“All hope is false in the face of desperation,” Cara replied. She glanced at Romaine, looking older than her years. “If theirs is a false hope, surely the same must be said for that of humanity. You said it yourself: the Tangata are too fast, too powerful. What hope can there be for your victory?”
Romaine swallowed, but caught in her amber gaze, found he did not have the words to reply. Cara spoke into the silence:
“Yes, they’re afraid,” she murmured, “and desperate. They know there’ll be no ground given in the war to come. And so they learn.”
A shudder ran down Romaine’s spine as Cara fell silent. They sat together watching the recruits for a while longer, until the ice finally left his veins.
Before the conversation could resume, the sound of approaching hooves rattled from across the plaza. They looked around as a single rider emerged from the main street leading north. It was a fine winter’s day and she wore a velvet bodice and slim-cut pants of Flumeeren red rather than furs. Despite her obviously recent arrival, her clothes were untouched by the dirt of the road.
Electric blue eyes swept the square, dismissing the blue-garbed recruits at a glance before continuing towards Romaine. Settling on his green-hued uniform, she heeled her horse towards him. Romaine let out a sigh—he knew a royal courtier when he saw one.
“A Calafe warrior!” the woman exclaimed as she approached. “I did not think any of your kind were left on the front lines.”
“Where else would I be, lass?”
The woman’s lips twisted in a frown and she scrunched her nose, but did not answer his question. Instead she looked away, eyes fixed on the distance now.
“Where is your general, soldier?” she asked.
Silence had fallen across the plaza at the woman’s appearance. Her clothing was of a far better quality than that of any of the citizens still in Fogmore. The rich had fled long ago, packing up their possessions and heading north to escape the coming war. Even without the expensive clothing, her long golden hair and bronzed skin was something of an anomaly amongst the Flumeeren and Perfugian soldiers. They spoke of southern heritage, an oddity in itself given the woman’s apparent standing in the Flumeeren court.
When Romaine’s reply was not quick in coming, the woman swung back to face him. “I asked you a question,” she said curtly.
“Forgive me, lass,” Romaine said, taking a step towards the horse, “but who in The Fall are you?”
The woman’s mouth fell open at his words, her face turning pale. Romaine only folded his arms and waited. The woman’s arrogance probably matched her importance, but not technically being a Flumeeren citizen, he was willing to risk the reprimand. He certainly didn’t have the patience to play her games.
“My name is Erika, Archivist to the crown, sent by Queen Amina herself!” The woman spouted the words as though they meant something to Romaine. “And you will show me some respect, Calafe!”
Romaine stifled a sigh and decided it was best to make the woman someone else’s problem as quickly as possible.
“My deepest apologies, ma’am,” he exclaimed, exaggerating a bow. “I had not heard of your arrival. I am sure General Curtis awaits your company with bated breath.”
The woman seemed taken aback by his sudden change in conduct. Her eyes narrowed but after a moment she gave a short nod.
“Very well,” she murmured, lifting her nose in a way that suggested she was above the apologies of a mere soldier. “You are forgiven. Now, the general?”
“Last I heard he was surveying our defences on the banks of the Illmoor,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the river gates. “You should find him there.”
The woman faltered, the colour draining from her cheeks. Romaine suppressed a grin. What was this woman doing on the frontier? He watched as she lifted her left hand and clenched it into a fist, and for the first time noticed she wore a gauntlet, though the metal links were too fine to offer any protection. Stranger still, her right hand was bare.
“Was there not an attack here, just two weeks past?” she asked. To her credit, there was no hint of fear in her voice. “What is the general doing outside the walls of this…city?” She said the final word like she could not quite believe the description.
“The Tangata are unlikely to attack in broad daylight, ma’am,” Romaine said, attempting to mimic the woman’s haughty air. “And the general is eager to bolster our defences. But your fears are…understandable. Perhaps you would prefer to wait—”
“No.” The woman drew herself up and set her eyes on the distant walls. “You will take me to the general, now, Calafe. I cannot afford any further delays.”
“Very well, ma’am,” he murmured, then turned to the recruits. They had stopped their practice at the woman’s arrival. It was time they resumed their duties at the quarry anyway. “Off with ya!” he bellowed, gesturing towards the mountains. “We’re done here for the day.”
The recruits moved off without further complaint. Lukys and Travis waved their goodbyes, grins on their faces, and Romaine nodded back. When they were finally gone, Romaine let out a sigh. Best he get this over and done with. Turning to the woman, he extended a hand in the direction of the river gates.
“After you, ma’am.”
16
The Archivist
Erika dismounted in front of the so-called river gates and cursed as her boot immediately sank to the ankle. The ground before the palisade had been churned to mud by the passage of horses and men—but she still could not understand why these gates were being used at all. The report she’d received in Mildeth spoke of dozens of Tangata attacking in the night. She was no officer, but it seemed beyond foolhardy to risk soldiers beyond the admittedly questionable protection of the palisade.
She glanced at the Calafe warrior that had guided her this far and balled her gauntleted hand into a fist. If this was all some joke…No, the man had been insolent at first, but had been the model of good behaviour since learning of her importance. Though she was tempted to have him fetch the general back...
But no, she would be venturing far beyond the wall before long. Letting out a sigh, she nodded to her guide. At a gesture from the warrior, the guards on the gate leapt to remove the heavy locking bar from its brackets. These wore the red of Flumeer, marking them as true soldiers—unlike the Perfugian rabble she had observed
in the plaza. Why their island neighbours bothered to send soldiers at all was beyond her when those were the best they could offer. They might have copied the Gemaho and just sent no one at all.
The gates squealed as they swung open, revealing a plain of churned-up mud leading down to the black waters of the Illmoor. A shiver ran down her spine as her eyes continued on. The day was clear and in the distance she spied a hint of green—the banks of Calafe. Enemy territory.
Home.
She pushed the memory away. Calafe was not her home. Mildeth, with its towering walls and spiralling citadel and noble queen, that was home.
Forcing her mind to the present, she walked past the guards and out into the sunlight beyond the palisade. The Calafe warrior fell into step beside her but before they could go far, racing footsteps chased after them. To Erika’s surprise, another woman ran from the city to join them.
Erika frowned, her stride faltering. The woman wore green, though it was so dark it could have been black, and like Erika she wore pants rather than a dress. Was this the warrior’s daughter? No, their complexions were too different. Though they certainly seemed to know each other.
“What are you doing here, Cara?” the man rumbled.
The woman ignored him, instead offering Erika a broad grin. “Cara,” she said. Her accent was soft, unlike the warrior’s.
“Erika,” she said reluctantly, still studying the woman. One of her arms was in a sling, though even that could be an act.
“Don’t mind Romaine, here,” Cara said lightly, pointing a thumb at the Calafe warrior. “He’s just tired.” She swung back to Erika. “So, what brings you here, Archivist?”
The hackles stood up on the back of Erika’s neck at the question and she narrowed her eyes. How did this strange woman know who she was? Could this Cara be another of Gemaho’s spies? No. She forced the thought from her mind. The woman had probably just overheard, back in the square.
