by Tim Lebbon
How long was I unconscious? Juda wondered. His limbs were stiff, his wound now a dull ache. He was thirsty, and hunger hollowed his stomach.
Another dizzy spell forced him to sit, one hand splayed across a surface of smooth ice. Ahead of him, up where he believed the entrance to the Engine lay, a solid wall of ice refracted moonlight from outside. So near, yet so far.
His shoulder bag banged against his hip as he shifted, and he smiled. He delved inside and brought out one of his last remaining dregs.
It was a cold, shrivelled thing. He muttered invocations and moulded the dreg to his desires, applying it to the icy barrier. As he leaned back and closed his eyes to rest, water began to flow.
Sol Merry woke in his tent and listened to a foreign wind blowing against the canvas.
He sat up on his sleeping roll and offered his customary prayer to the Fade. Then he dressed, and his thoughts went to Leki, his love, his wife. The lack of any more racks from her at this most crucial of times was troubling, but he was a professional soldier and he could only let the fact trouble him so far as it affected their mission. Personal feelings were not the province of the battlefield. He should have left his love at home.
Instead, he carried it deep inside where only he could see.
There was a tap at the tent post.
‘Enter,’ Sol said. Gallan slipped through the flap and offered a lazy salute. He looked tired, his eyes heavy, but excited as well.
‘Snow’s stopped, it’s a bright morning,’ Gallan said. ‘But the scouts have returned, and it’s snowing even heavier to the north.’
‘How far to the north?’
‘Twenty miles.’
‘Huh.’ Sol continued strapping on his weapon belt and leather harnesses – primed pistol, knife, sword, throwing stars, a hand-sized folded crossbow and a rack of bolts – automatically checking his insignia as he went. ‘It doesn’t feel cold enough.’
‘It isn’t, here.’ Gallan picked up Sol’s boots and nodded at the upended equipment box. Sol sat, and his Side helped strap on his boots. It was purely an act of friendship. He had known Gallan for a long time, they had their tensions, but there was nothing of superiority in private. Outside in the sight of others, the barrier of rank would be between them again.
‘And nothing from Leki,’ Sol said.
‘No. Sol … it doesn’t mean anything’s happened.’
‘Any word from the generals?’
‘Not this morning.’
Sol nodded, then flexed his toes inside the boots. They were a perfect fit. He’d had them specially manufactured in New Kotrugam by a shoemaker, each boot cut very particularly around the knotted wounds he’d received as a young boy on his ankles. The spit snake had clung on hard, and it had taken his father and brother half a day to cut it away.
‘And no contact with any hostiles?’
‘Nothing. You’d have been woken, you know that.’
Sol nodded his thanks, smiled. But he was still far away. Leki … what might have happened to you in this forsaken land?
‘Then let’s get things moving,’ Sol said. Gallan exited the tent first, and Sol followed him out onto the Skythian beach, ready to give his Blade their orders for the day.
But the orders for that day would come from elsewhere.
Even this early, the beach was already quietly bustling. Many soldiers were still asleep in their tents, and other troops had ventured inland to form a protective front curving around the entire stretch of the landing zone. But those who had been assigned to dig in and protect the Engines were alert in their boarded trenches, weapons caches within easy reach, heavy rifles resting on wooden blocks. Others moved to and fro, unloading supplies from small boats that ferried them from the fleet, and there was a kitchen set up further along the beach, three huge cooking fires already ablaze to prepare breakfast. The activity had trodden most of the settled snow into the sand.
If everything went well today, two out of three Engines would be packed and moving by noon.
Sol received several salutes as he and Gallan walked along the beach. They passed the rackers’ tent to their left, glancing nervously that way but seeing no sign of the two women. The guards there had set themselves as far away from the tent as possible. They looked glum with their assignment, but did nothing to complain.
‘A long time since the troops had foreign sand between their toes,’ Gallan said, and Sol smiled. It had been years, the last time an assault on a troublesome Outer stronghold a thousand miles across the Western Sea. That had been a bloody success. As would this be.
He did his best to assure himself of that. A success! But Leki’s disappearance did not allow him to be completely convinced.
‘And long enough since their blades were bloodied,’ Sol said. ‘So, fill me in on troop deployment while we walk.’
‘Er …’ Gallan said. ‘Sol. General Cove.’ Cove was striding along the beach towards them, his long beard rubbing against his chest. Long beards were not allowed on the common soldier, and Sol did not wear one either. The general’s was an affectation. Sol didn’t like it, and had decided long ago that, though he respected the man, he did not like him. There was too much ego at play for him to be a proper general to his men. He was what Sol had always thought: a politician.
‘Blader Merry!’ Cove said, and Sol and Gallan saluted. Cove looked at Gallan. ‘You may leave us. Fetch … breakfast. Your Blader and I have words to cross.’
‘I have no cross words with you, General,’ Sol said.
‘Perhaps I have with you.’ Cove stared at Sol, and Sol heard Gallan retreat quietly towards the kitchens. I’ve done nothing, Sol thought, convinced, quickly going over in his mind his method of landing and the dispersion of his troops and equipment. The rackers sat quiet and mysterious within their tent. The Fader priests squatted beside the covered Engines. Guards were posted. All was well.
‘General,’ Sol said, ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Your fucking floater wife,’ Cove said. He smiled slightly when he saw Sol’s reaction, but it did not touch his eyes. ‘You choose to take a floater bitch into your bed, and now that Arcanum witch is letting us down.’
Sol had a sudden, shocking image of pulling his short sword and plunging it through the general’s breastplate, just at the point where he knew the leather armour to be hinged, and slicing it back and forth between his ribs.
‘General … I must object to—’
‘You must do as you’re fucking ordered,’ Cove said. He paused then, falling quiet. Silence was Cove’s favoured tactic for disarming his underlings.
‘I have done as ordered, General. This beach is secure, the Engines and rackers are well guarded. My soldiers have made contact with other Blades, and we’re well protected. It’s a successful landing. Perfect.’
The general simply stared at him.
‘And your language when referring to our Arcanum spy is inappropriate. General.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes. She has sent us several rackings over the past few days, keeping us informed of progress. She told us that Aeon—’
‘And nothing since.’
‘Perhaps something prevented her from doing so. Perhaps she was injured, taken prisoner, or killed.’
‘If she was killed, she should have told us.’
Sol sighed, and immediately Cove bristled. ‘Am I boring you, Blader Merry?’
‘No, General. Frustration with your attitude to what our Arcanum contact has already achieved. She’s no witch. And—’
‘And, Blader?’ Cove took a step closer, almost inviting Sol’s imagined sword attack.
‘And my marriage to Lechmy Borle is nothing to do with this operation or this landing. And is nothing to do with you.’
The general raised an eyebrow, seemed about to counter, and then stepped back, stroking his beard. He glanced away from the sea and inland, as if seeing further than the first hillside.
‘We have no idea what awaits us!’ he said s
harply. ‘If only she had told us more.’
‘If she’s alive, she will find a way,’ Sol said.
The general nodded. It was his turn to sigh. ‘I … apologise for calling her a floater. That was unfair of me, Blader. My great-grandmother was an amphy.’ He smiled softly. ‘And my relationship with that old bitch should be no reflection on your wife.’
‘General,’ Sol said, noncommittal.
‘We’re blind here, Merry. We have the seeing-doves flying sorties, but there’s nothing like a soldier’s view on things. These Skythians are lower than Outers, but that doesn’t mean they might not be gathering against us. Therefore, myself and the other generals have decided to send a reconnaissance Blade deep inland to see how the land lies, and we think it should be yours.’
‘Yes, General,’ Sol said. He was frowning, and Cove tilted his head, inviting comment. ‘Is it because she’s my wife?’ Sol asked.
‘Partly,’ Cove said. ‘But also because you’ve spent the sea journey with the Engines on your ship, and with those …’ He nodded along the beach behind Sol at the rackers’ tent. ‘I think your troops could use something more constructive to do, don’t you?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes, General,’ Sol said. ‘If only you’d been more constructive in how you gave the order.’ It was a daring rebuke, but once spoken it could not be taken back. Sol did not avert his eyes as the general’s gentle smile fell.
‘Well,’ the general said. ‘Well.’ His smile returned, still not touching his eyes. ‘My apology stands. Ready yourselves, Blader. Take what weapons and handlers you see fit, and I’ll be bringing troops from the next beach along to guard your charges. Report back by sundown.’
‘Yes, General.’ Sol saluted, but the general was already turning away.
‘While you’re away, the first Engine will be established where you stand,’ the general said over his shoulder. ‘Time to get on with things.’
Easier just to shoot him in the back of the head, Sol thought. His pistol was heavy on his belt. Dreaming of violence and blood, he watched his bastard general stride along the beach. ‘Fuck you, General,’ Sol whispered. When he turned around, Gallan was already approaching.
‘That looked fun,’ Gallan said.
‘Delightful,’ Sol said. ‘Get the Blade together. Briefing at breakfast, then we’re moving out.’
Gallan raised his eyebrows, but Sol turned away. He looked at the covered Engines and the rackers’ tent. Weird things, both. Much as he hated to agree with what General Cove had said, he’d be glad to leave them behind.
Sol and the forty-nine Spike soldiers of his Blade ate breakfast together, and it was an animated affair. Not raucous, because they were in enemy territory, and any trained soldiers knew to keep their noise low. But there was an excitement bubbling through them all now that they were aware of what the day would bring. The landing had been achieved successfully and without any casualties, but now the Spike were itching to move on. And, perhaps, for a fight.
Half a Blade had already been drafted in from the next beach to take over their positions, and as they gathered after breakfast Sol saw the displeasure on some of the other soldiers’ faces. Eight of them settled around the Engines, leaving a comfortable distance between them, the devices and their priests. Several more stationed themselves around the rackers’ tent. Its canvas flapped, and sometimes Sol saw a waft of something rising from the tent’s vents. Once, walking past, he had heard chuckling inside.
His Blade checked each other’s weapons, ensured their equipment was tied and packed properly around their bodies to avoid noise, shouldered packs containing food, water, sleeping and cooking supplies, and ammunition, and the four handlers they were taking with them ensured their charges were properly prepared for movement. They were taking two sparkhawks, a nest of ving wasps and one of the lyons, its fire-glands still plugged but calming drugs obviously fading from its system. Each time it exhaled it growled, glaring left and right. Its handler, Tamma, kept a prod stick in her hand at all times – any misbehaving from the lyon and she would poke it with the stick, firing a steam-fuelled pellet into its stomach that would incapacitate it until she could bring it back under control. Sol had once seen the prod stick used on a person when two Spike fought to settle a long-term quarrel, and the woman had been blown almost in half. Such an effect showed how fearsome the lyons were.
He was as glad as any to leave the beach. Betraying his unconventional approach to leadership, he led his own Blade from the sands and over the dunes, Gallan by his side. He knew that General Cove would be frowning upon such a brazen display of rule-breaking – Bladers were instructed to remain close to the centre of their Blade in case of attack, not near the front where the danger was greatest – but Sol was a leader, not a politician. Since the moment he had been promoted nine years before, he had vowed that he would never expect his soldiers to undertake something he was not prepared to do himself. Him leading improved morale, and maintained respect amongst his soldiers.
It was their eyes he felt upon him as they pushed inland, not the weakened gaze of the ageing general.
The sand dunes quickly gave way to rocky, hazardous terrain. Sol ordered his troops to spread out and advance in three lines, and Gallan took the line to his left. They communicated via hand signals, never drifting far apart enough to lose touch. Moving silently, cautiously, Sol issued the command that they should ready their weapons.
A rustling, and a few subtle clicks as weapons were unclipped, unsheathed or hefted.
Perhaps three miles inland, Gallan whistled once. They halted. On a rocky slope above Gallan’s line a shape stared down upon them.
Tamma was close behind Sol, the lyon calm by her side. ‘Slayer,’ she said.
‘By the gods,’ Sol said. ‘Heard about them. Never thought I’d see one.’ He signalled to the lines to his left and right to hold back.
‘Ugly bastard,’ Tamma said, and Sol chuckled.
The slayer stood and watched, offering no indication as to its intention. Sol considered ordering it taken down – his archers could undoubtedly strike it from this distance. But he’d heard the rumours about where these things were birthed, and how, and he feared that a chestful of arrows would simply piss it off.
‘Lyon?’ Tamma suggested.
‘I think subtlety is the better move,’ Sol said. ‘It’s under the Ald’s employ, after all.’
‘Yes, but they’re …’
‘I know,’ Sol said. ‘Not quite alive. Not quite dead.’ He considered for a moment, then signalled for Gallan to take several Spike to confront the slayer.
The Blade spread out slightly where they waited, and Sol watched nervously as Gallan and five others worked their way around the foot of the rocky outcropping. They parted into two teams and climbed in different areas, presenting separate targets should the slayer choose to attack. But it barely seemed to notice their approach.
‘If it even moves the wrong way, riflemen and archers,’ Sol commanded. ‘And then the lyon.’ The slayer’s stillness was troubling him, and, as Gallan drew closer, Sol’s sense of doom increased.
Tamma attended the lyon, removing the plugs from its fire-vents and loosening the collar with which she controlled it. It growled deep within its chest, and Sol was convinced he felt the growl through his feet, rather than heard it.
‘It must know they’re there now,’ Tamma said.
‘It knows.’
Gallan approached and halted a few steps from the slayer, hand on his sword, knees slightly bent. A fighting stance. From this far away Sol could not hear what was said, but the slayer’s head dropped and it went to its knees. It seemed to slump down, like a candle melting under intense heat, until it was little more than a low mound on the rock’s upper surface.
Gallan turned and waved at Sol, one single hand signal that conveyed that all was well.
‘Move on,’ Sol said, waving forward. As one, the soldiers moved out.
It took a while for Gallan and the others t
o descend the crag and catch up. When they did, Sol slipped from his line and trotted through high bracken to where Gallan had rejoined the head of his own troop.
‘What happened?’ Sol asked.
Gallan looked troubled. It did not suit him. ‘I’ve never been in the presence of anything like it,’ he said. ‘Have you ever …?’
Sol shook his head.
‘It was in mourning,’ Gallan said. ‘I could smell the sadness coming from it.’
‘Sadness over what?’
‘It said its mate was killed by a god.’ Gallan shrugged as they walked on, and Sol moved back to his line without another word.
It began to snow again. The terrain rose steadily inland, and they could see the hillsides before them glistening white. The dividing line between clear skies and snow-laden passed without them noticing, and soon they were trudging through an ever-deepening layer. They were equipped for such weather, and most soldiers in Sol’s Blade had spent at least a year training in the Harcrassyan Mountains.
The snowfall remained relatively light, so that although the going was tougher, visibility was still good. As they climbed to the top of one gentle slope, they could see across a wide valley to another, though the valley floor itself was obscured by a low mist.
‘Almost noon,’ Gallan said. ‘How long do we head inland?’
‘Until we make contact,’ Sol said. They shared Gallan’s water canteen. Sol wished for something warm.
‘I thought the General suggested we return today?’
‘And if we return with news of nothing but snow?’ Sol asked. Leki is out there somewhere, he thought, hating the idea of her corpse cooled enough to allow snow to settle in her open eyes.
There was an awkward silence, broken only by Gallan screwing the top back on his bottle. ‘The chance of just running into her is remote,’ he said at last. ‘Even if she’s heading south to meet us, it’s a long coast and the landscape is wild.’
‘I know that,’ Sol said. ‘I know.’
They descended into the valley, sending four soldiers ahead to probe the mist shielding the valley floor from view. They returned at intervals to report the way across safe, and when the Blade reached the shallow river and saw what surrounded it, the source of the mist became apparent. The rents in the land seemed new – fresh rocks lay shattered across the landscape, some of them so recent that they were not yet covered with snow – and ice-cold mist rose from within. Several Spike ventured too close and fell back, their skin and flesh frozen by contact with gushing mist-geysers. They were treated and patched, and Sol led his soldiers towards the river.
