by Col Buchanan
Ash began to take a step forward. At the sight of it, Baracha did the same. They both tried to speak at once.
'I will go,' declared Ash.
'As will I,' said Baracha, and he and Ash eyed each other with visible surprise.
Behind them, Nico and Aleas did the same.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The War Below Bahn spent most of the day underground.
He had been sent by General Creed into the warren of tunnels and chambers that cut through the earth and rubble foundations of the outer wall – Kharnost's Wall – where the sappers and the Specials worked endlessly to stop the Shield being undermined by the enemy. His instructions were simple: assess, through independent eyes, the present condition of the men below.
Like ghosts, Bahn concluded, in his first hour of being underground in those cold dark spaces where they toiled and sometimes fought.
The sappers were ragged and filthy. Many were criminals pardoned only on condition of working here, though some had volunteered, ex-miners and skilled labourers mostly. Any patch of their skin still free of grime shone sickly white in the pale swing of the lanterns. They dug dirt and carried dirt and shored up roofs with tarred timber in abject silence like that of a coffin. Working days for the slaves were merciless and exhausting, leaving little time for sleep. They worked in shifts of eleven hours, a half day, which in the tunnels felt more like twice that length of time, then rotated back to the surface where they drank the fresh air and rubbed their eyes in the burning daylight like men restored from the dead.
The Specials were a different breed entirely. Lean and wild-looking in their creaking, compact casings of black-leather armour and with their bare faces heavily scarred, they sat around in squads in small rooms barely large enough to hold them all, playing cards or fixing kit or simply waiting, eyes dulled by boredom, for some sudden signal of alarm. They had dogs with them, strong blunt-faced animals specially bred for underground baiting, just as scarred as their handlers. These lay with their leashes tied to posts, their bodies similarly encased in a simpler form of leather armour; occasionally their ears would twitch at the distant barking of other dogs below ground.
The air was foul and tasted spent. The low light strained eyes. The silence became a pressure on the ears, like the prelude to something terrible.
This was the first time Bahn had ever visited the tunnels. Like most ordinary soldiers he was glad to avoid them, and would listen to stories of the underground fighting with a mixture of horror at what those men went through and relief that he was not down there himself. He could not help but think of his own brother once living in these tunnels, passing each shift in tedium as a volunteer Special, knowing that at any moment an alarm might ring out, calling him to a desperate squalid fight in some pitch-black passageway no taller or wider than himself. His brother Cole had lasted two years in these tunnels before he had cracked under the strain of it, and had deserted the army and abandoned his family and everything else that he knew. He had never once spoken of his experiences below ground, not even to Bahn.
Coming to the end of a tunnel so low that Bahn had to stoop to avoid the sagging roof beams half-eaten with rot – a tunnel which zigzagged for hundreds of yards lit by lanterns strung too far apart for their light to meet, and sealed at every juncture by a heavy door that was opened and closed behind them by a Special, and with a hard-packed earth floor that dipped and then rose up again, heading beneath Kharnost's Wall then out beyond it, out beneath no man's land. At the end of the great tunnel, with that sense of weight pressing above his head like a sky of earth, Bahn found himself guided to a wooden stool set in the eerie confines of a listening post, a room just large enough to contain a pair of bunks, a desk, a bucket for crapping in, and two sweating Specials. He sat down with some uncertainty and pressed his ear to the opening of a conical device that resembled a bullhorn, itself in turn pressed against a wall of solid dirt.
In the silent depths of this place, Bahn listened to the dim and frantic howls of a man.
'Enemy sapper, I imagine,' one of the Specials explained. 'Trapped in a collapse somewhere.'
Bahn looked up and saw that he was grinning.
'Must be new at this, too, otherwise he wouldn't be shouting like that.'
The other Special looked up from where he sat whittling a length of wood. 'They always carry a bell with them, so, if they get trapped, they can untie the clapper and ring it for help. Uses up less air that way, than shouting.' He jerked his head towards the wall. 'He's panicked, though.'
Bahn eventually left them in their dingy cell of a room. On his way back, riding in the same small-wheeled cart drawn along two metal rails by a dwarf mule, an alarm sounded out. They had reached a crossing of tunnels where, from a passage on the left, came the clanging sound of a bell loud enough to spook the draught mule.
'Come on, now,' said the driver, attempting to sooth the frightened animal, just as a detachment of Specials ran across the junction before them, moving at a crouch and armed with punch-knives.
The mule shied up in alarm and kicked its hooves at the air. Failing to jump free of its harness, it only grew worse in its panic.
With hands held out, the driver went forward to calm his mule, clucking his tongue and speaking soft words to it. The mule snapped at him with its teeth, eyes rolling, then it began to shoulder-charge the wall, harness and all, colliding against it with dull thuds like a great fist smacking the ground. Bahn climbed out and stepped forward to lend a hand. It was clear they would have to restrain the animal before it broke its own neck.
Bahn could approach no closer, with the driver in his way. He retreated around the back of the little cart and squeezed along the other side of the tunnel until he had cleared it. He paused, a hand held up to protect his face, the mule's back legs kicking out next to him, splintering the wood of the rig and its own hooves along with it. No good this way, he thought. Need to get round to the front.
He leapt forward just as the animal dropped its legs again. But the mule sensed him coming and lashed out a hoof that caught him a breathtaking kick to his side. Bahn rolled to the ground, felt the iron rails biting into his back. He lay there desperately trying to find breath.
There was no calming the creature. In the end, the driver had to put an end to its life with his knife drawn across its throat, a grim determination on his face.
Merciful Fool, Bahn thought, some time later, his hand still clutching his throbbing side, his legs striding ever faster towards the beams of sunlight that blasted down the entrance-shaft like the welcoming hand of some benign god…
This is where my brother lost his mind.
*
Bahn felt too rattled to climb the hill to the Ministry and make his report immediately. His shift was over for the day, regardless, so he decided to leave the report until the morning, and instead stopped a passing rickshaw and gave the man his address as he climbed into the narrow seat, and took in the glory of the clear open sky overhead.
The streets were crammed with the usual bustle of traffic and commerce. The rickshaw wove through the throng with some difficulty, as its owner pulled Bahn along at a slow jog, shouting out when he needed a clear path. Heading through the Barber Quarter, they passed streets where Bahn had grown up as a youth, a poor but close-knit district of hairdressers and small-trades shops and crumbling tenement buildings, though lined now mostly with beggar carts and gossiping prostitutes, a sight he would never have witnessed during daylight hours before the war began. He watched the street-girls as the cart trotted past them, their flimsy garments concealing little from his roving eyes.
It was late in the afternoon when he arrived at their home in the northern quarter of the city, located as far from the Shield as one could get. With relief that his work was done for the day, he stepped off the rickshaw in the street in front of their townhouse just as his sister-in-law Reese was pulling up in her own cart.
How strange these occurrences are, Bahn thought, sensing something of Fat
e, of the Dao, in this coincidence, his brother still lingering so strongly in his thoughts.
Reese embraced him with a kiss to the cheek as he led her into their small two-storey dwelling. It was somewhat more spacious than the first home he and Marlee had shared above the public baths together, though it was still cramped. The house was empty, which surprised him for a moment, until he recalled that she and the children were visiting her own sister today.
He and Reese drank chee and chatted on the first-floor balcony, having not met since her last visit to the city.
'Where's Los today?' he enquired politely, thinking he should ask about her latest partner, at least for form's sake.
Reese merely shrugged. Bahn knew that Los could disappear for days without any word of his whereabouts. Gambling and whoring, Bahn supposed, from his vague impressions of the man. Los was of enlistment age, which meant he was either avoiding the draft or he had succeeded in buying his way out of it.
It was a shame, Bahn reflected, since the man would no doubt return to her when he was again out of money and with nowhere else to go.
'It will be time for your daughter's naming ceremony soon,' Reese observed with a forced smile.
'Aye,' said Bahn, trying to keep his breathing shallow. He had found that his bruised side did not hurt so badly that way.
'I'm keeping some foodstuffs aside for it. Some potatoes for pies, some peppers preserved in oil. It's all I can manage, I'm afraid.'
'That's kind of you,' sighed Bahn. 'Marlee doesn't seem to believe me when I tell her there is no extra food to be found anywhere.'
Reese nodded thoughtfully, staring into her cup.
'Something's bothering you,' he said. 'I can always tell.'
She didn't speak, so he continued and as he tried to think of what he should say next, it suddenly came to him what was troubling her.
'It's Nico, isn't it?'
Her eyes flinched and she looked away. 'He's gone,' she confessed.
'Gone? Gone where, exactly?'
Again that shrug, as though everything was hopeless.
'He's left the city to take up some… apprenticeship.'
'What?'
The pain in his side suddenly worsened. He deliberately slowed his breathing as he waited for her to answer. It was clear that Reese wanted to say more, but she hesitated in her response, then seemed to give up on the effort, as though it was too ridiculous to voice aloud.
'Have you heard from him? Is he well?'
She didn't seem to know.
Normally, Reese could talk easily with Bahn. They had a closeness of sorts, an openness that had intensified after his brother Cole had left her, Nico's father, as though this shared loss allowed them to share other things of intimacy and worry. They often spoke of Cole, sharing what little rumour they had heard of him from old veterans they had run across, or who had visited on purpose with some news. Cole's last-known trail had led to Pathia, where, it was rumoured he had been hanged for a highway robbery, though others claimed he was now a longhunter, crossing the mountains into the world of the Great Hush, to live wild there for months on end. How unhinged he must have become, Bahn often considered, to have abandoned a woman such as this to go and live in the wilderness by himself.
The pain in Bahn's side had now spread into his bladder. He needed to relieve himself. Cursing his body for its poor timing, he excused himself and stood up.
'Are you all right?' Reese asked him.
'Yes. Just a few sore ribs, I reckon.' He did not wish to mention the tunnels, with their inevitable reminders of Cole.
Bahn made his way down to the backyard privy and found that he was pissing blood. With his tunic hauled up and clenched in his teeth, he probed the ugly bruises on his side, and checked once more for any fractured ribs. Contenting himself that they were all still intact, Bahn swept back his hair, smoothed down his tunic, and turned to go.
As soon as he returned to the balcony he wondered if it had been a mistake to leave his sister-in-law on her own. Reese still sat with one arm resting on the wooden rail, and the other holding the cup in her lap, but was now surveying the tree-lined street with a brooding stare.
She didn't seem to notice as he sat himself down again gingerly. In anyone else he might have suspected this behaviour as some sort of self-indulgent drama – but not in Reese.
'What are you thinking?' he asked her, softly.
She turned back to face him, her brief smile holding something of an apology. The cup of chee now seemed forgotten in her hand.
'I was just thinking… I was thinking how Nico and Cole are both gone now.'
Her voice was quiet, restrained. Bahn was reminded of the faint yelling of a man trapped in the earth, with nothing to see or feel or hear but the darkness all around him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Sisters of Loss and Longing The sister moons shone overhead in a dark, star-spattered sky. They rose with a fullness that narrowed the eyes – one dusty white, the other blue – and they climbed together on a course that took them partially along the Great Wheel, the visible galactic core, obscuring that vast stain of starlight. Only once in a year did the two moons rise together in all their fullness and, in doing so, they heralded the coming days of autumn. Perhaps it was the reason they had been given their names: the Sisters of Loss and Longing.
The two figures hiking up the hill were small and insignificant beneath this vista of galactic sky. The night was bright enough to see the ground in front of them, and they walked with their heads down, watching their footfalls, thoughtful. Because of this, it was almost a surprise to them when they drew up before the tiny shack at last, noticing it squatting there in the dimness all of a sudden, set against a sound of coursing water that was reminiscent of flames snapping on a distant fire. There was no fire lit in the tiny hut tonight, but a single lantern burned within, spilling a tongue of welcoming yellow light through the mouth of the open doorway. Without hesitation they followed it inside.
The Seer sat cross-legged upon a mat on the floor, a book lying open on his lap. He was squinting down at it through a pair of exceedingly thick-glassed spectacles, as one hand scratched idly at his lice.
It was some time before he acknowledged his visitors, and Nico stood there with dwindling patience, willing Ash to at least clear his throat and announce their presence.
When the Seer looked up at them at last, he smiled and set the book carefully to one side amongst a stack of others. He beckoned them to sit.
Ash began to speak. The older man nodded, listening closely, occasionally exchanging a question for an answer. Their words were soft, respectful of the night hush around them. The old Seer did not seem to be bothered by this late-night intrusion; rather, he seemed to welcome the company. It was as though he had been expecting such a visit from one of the Rshun tonight.
As he and Ash finished their conversation, the Seer gathered up a varnished featherwood box from one corner of the shack, and settled it on the floor beside him. Items appeared from the box in his trembling fingers, and Nico examined them closely as they were arrayed upon the mat.
A square of black slate lay with a lump of chalk resting upon it. Beside these, a bundle of what looked liked dried reeds, each about a foot long. They were left untouched for some minutes as the Seer composed himself with a series of carefully focused breaths. Then he announced his readiness to proceed by a swift clap of his hands.
As he set to work, his hands moved fast for one of his age. He began by tossing the bundle of reeds against the mat, and quickly sweeping a hand across them to divide the resulting pile in two. He then gathered up the right pile and, in a blur of motion, flicked reed after reed from one hand into the other, stopping each time he was left with four or less in his right hand. As he did so, he would lodge the reed or reeds between two of his fingers, and he would begin the whole process once more, minus those ones already singled out.
Once all five fingers held reeds between them, he stopped to count how many there were.
The resulting number seemed meaningful in some way. He chalked a mark on the slate – just a single line – and threw down the reeds to begin all over again.
It was a lengthy process, during which the Seer would occasionally scratch another line of chalk on the slate, either a solid line or a dash, which gradually built up into a series. Nico lost track of time and his eyes were already drooping when the Seer finally appeared to reach the end of his task, with six lines in all now scratched on the slate.
The old man squinted down at the results, muttering to himself.
'Ken-yoma no-shid,' he offered Ash. The Rshun nodded earnestly in response.
The Seer rambled on, outlining what he foresaw. When he paused again to study the slate, Nico whispered to Ash for a translation.
Ash was annoyed at this interruption, but a look into Nico's tired eyes seemed to soften him, enough to offer a brief explanation.
'I ask how we will fare on this vendetta. He tells me of thunder, shock – how some shocking event will lead to a great course of action. Now hush, he comes to the crucial part.'
'After shock, you will have two paths facing you,' the Seer announced in sudden, perfect Trade, his eyes glancing at Nico before returning to meet the intense gaze of Ash.
'By taking one path, you will fail in your task, though with no blame and much still to do… On the other, you will win through in the end with great blame, and nothing that would further you.'
Ash considered this divination. He cleared his throat. 'Is that all?'
The Seer smiled kindly, but did not reply.
They left soon after that, bowing and scraping their way towards the doorway. As Nico turned away from the Seer, he shouted after him, 'Boy!'
His call drew Nico back. The old man smacked his gums and squinted up at him.
'You did not ask me for a divination. It is your right, on this night.'
