by T. C. Edge
“Well, not if someone attacks you. It only takes one time.”
“And who’s going to do that, darling? No one. Not here.”
“It just takes one,” I say again, slower this time. “I’m going to speak with Commander Burns. We’ll find a better option.”
I escape before she can offer a retort, wondering just why she’s so adamant that Marler leave her side. I assume it’s based off of some misplaced pride at requiring such personal attention, hour after hour, as if she needs babysitting. She probably looks upon all the mayhem out there, and wonders just why she’s got such a gifted bodyguard here in the safest place in the city. He may never be put to use. But again, I repeat…it just takes one time.
I make sure to put the issue to bed, however, by getting both Commander Burns and Zander onside. The fact that Burns would rather prefer to have Marler around for his own protection, should something go awry, certainly helps my cause. Eventually, my grandmother concedes, always judicious enough to see the logic in our collective opinion on the matter.
I win the battle and can breathe a little easier. And now, I can do little but wait.
The morning hurries forward, the fighting around the inner ring of Outer Haven going through several phases as the Cure attempt to press forward. Reports come in that they’re making headway in the north, pressing us back even further. We send reinforcements from the east to bolster our lines. The Cure notice and press harder in the east instead, forcing us to continually ferry more soldiers to areas most under threat.
With our numbers dwindling, and theirs augmented by the new battalion that arrived overnight, we have little opportunity to allow our men to rest. So far, the system has worked, our army sufficiently large to allow groups of men to take rest while others hold the line. Now, however, all available forces are called to action, many of those manning the wall and gates to Inner Haven required to join. The only trump card we have left are the cannons and large guns affixed to the ramparts. Though, there are far fewer around the inner walls than there were the perimeter walls, and with so many buildings acting as cover for the enemy, they’re likely to be far less effective.
Soon, things are becoming more desperate, and there’s a feeling of inevitability spreading through the command centre. As with their initial breaches several days ago, the Cure are pulling us left and right, testing us, exhausting us. Their use of the smoke and sound has been neutralised. But their numbers remain greater than ours, giving their reserve soldiers an opportunity to take rest when ours are now perpetually on edge.
Sooner or later, they’ll work their way through our lines and overwhelm us. And the closer they get to the walls, the less effective our attempts to flank them will become. We have to go now, before it’s too late. Time is growing increasingly hostile to our cause.
Arranging the teams doesn’t happen as fast as I’d like. Not until mid-morning, several hours after originally suggesting it, is Zander coming to me and telling me to ‘suit up’.
“It’s time?” I ask, eyes widening.
He nods.
“Get ready.”
“I am ready!” I say. “I’ve been in my armour all day. See this pulse rifle on my back?”
He taps his head.
“No, get ready in here. Focus, get in the right headspace for battle. We’re leaving in five.”
“Where? Which quarter?”
“Southern,” he tells me. “We’re going to join a team of ten Stalkers and our own men there. The other quarters are better stocked and don’t need us.”
“Right. Drum’s in the south…” I say, thinking I might get to see him. Even just glimpse him to see that he’s OK.
Zander smiles.
“Fancy that, what a nice coincidence.” He begins to move off, then turns. “Oh, some news you might not know…Rhoth and West are there too, along with some of the Fangs.”
“They’re alive?!”
He huffs.
“Rhoth, alive? Of course. You think anything can kill that man?”
He winks at me and I laugh. Then I straighten out my mouth, set my jaw, and narrow my eyes.
“Right. Ready,” I growl.
15
The air holds a chill beyond the insulated walls of the City Guard HQ. The sky, a stark blue, gives refuge to no clouds at all, and the wind flutters in, crisp and fresh. I step out onto the now-quiet streets with my brother, briskly moving through the command centre and out without saying goodbye to Adryan. There’s no time for it, and I can’t risk the emotional toil it might take. As Zander said, it’s time to get into the right headspace. Adryan doesn’t belong there now.
My grandmother, however, does send us on our way with a warm smile and a word of support and inspiration. Commander Burns, too, offers some final snippets of guidance, his wisdom always welcome. Other than the two of them, our departure is greeted with no fanfare or fond farewell. Most are too busy to even know we’re leaving.
And that’s just how it should be.
Outside, a little up the street, a car has been prepared for us, a soldier waiting outside to take us quickly to the southern gate. We step inside, refreshed after our many days of battle, myself cleaned and looking like a new entrant to the game, my brother appearing as if he’s been playing it all his life.
In many ways, I suppose that’s about right. If our current state of cleanliness was an analogy for our experience in battle and war, I’d suit this fresh new armour, and Zander would suit his, stinking and filthy and marked with scars.
Within the confines of the vehicle, his whiff becomes more overpowering. I notice our driver struggling to counter the stench, his nose wrinkling and brow tightening. I open up a window to let some fresh air in, which seems to alert my brother to the problem.
“I don’t smell great, do I?” he asks.
I shake my head and pinch my nose.
“Did you sleep in your clothes last night?” I ask.
I consider the idea of taking them off, and putting them back on again, far worse than just leaving them on to catch a few winks.
“Yeah, didn’t want to waste any time. A shower didn’t even cross my mind.” He takes a long sniff of himself, and grits his teeth. “I need to sort this out. Any good Sniffer might smell me coming depending on the wind.”
The solution is simple, but adds a few minutes to the clock. As we work through the city, he orders the driver to make a quick stop at the southern gate. The driver also calls ahead to discover whether there are fresh combat clothes and armour available for him to change into.
We don’t discover the full answer until we arrive, and the answer is, unfortunately, no. In the end, it’s not unfortunate for Zander, but for the poor soldier who fits his shape and proportions. A quick check through the final men manning the gate leads to the discovery of this ideal candidate.
The changeover is as quick as it can be. Out in the open, Zander and the soldier strip to their underwear, before the former dresses up in the latter’s fatigues. The latter looks upon my brother’s pile of festering garments with an upturned nose. I can’t help but smile at the look on the poor guy’s face as he battles with the prospect of putting them on.
In the end, some other items are gathered up from his squad, sparing his blushes. Zander leaves the man with a short apology but nothing more. Frankly, he has little time to worry about such things right now.
Once he steps back into the car, his stench has been replaced by something far more neutral. The gate is opened, and we quickly pass through, our driver intent on getting us as close as possible to our rendezvous point before heading back past the wall. I’m all for it, wishing to save as much of my energy as possible. It is, as I’ve become acutely aware, a rare and critical resource.
Beyond the wall, the sounds of battle are now flaring once again. The morning has seen several lulls and low periods, yet now it would appear the stars have aligned and our enemy are staging several full assaults. It will aid us in sneaking through our flanks, and theirs.
>
At least, I hope it will.
With the war now raging loud, we move onto the main street through the southern quarter, and spy signs of the blockade not far away. It’s closer than it was last night, the same in all quarters. The central blockade has fallen, and the enemy’s advance is growing inevitable. This final blockade must hold. If it falls, the walls to Inner Haven will be next to fall under the hammer. And past those walls, our physical defences are much weaker. And all of our civilians, those we’ve promised to protect, will be under direct threat.
We cannot let that happen, and this strike will hopefully prevent it. The plan is simple. Speed through our flanks in all quarters, working down the streets we hold. Teams of twelve or thereabouts, all powerful, all quick and strong, will strike hard at their rear, causing mayhem in their ranks and, ideally, slowing down their forward progress.
It should give us not only time, but the advantage of helping to equalise our forces. Right now, their numbers are a good deal greater than ours, and our exhaustion is telling. We need to slice off a good portion of their army and, in doing so, inspire the rest of our men to complete the job.
We venture slightly eastwards now as we press on, the endless chatter of gunfire and regular explosions now enough to hinder conversation. It’s loud, aggressively so, and I feel the pounding of my heart begin to step up several gears once more.
Moving through narrower lanes, we work towards the edge of the inner circle of Outer Haven, and I begin to spot little squads of our men, hidden behind protective barriers as they watch alleys and possible attack routes. At any point, the Cure could come rushing. They have to be ready at all times, the nervous tension growing unbearable. And here, with our numbers low, there’s so little respite, so little chance to take a break or move back from the line. Exhaustion in war can be as deadly as anything. And many of our men are suffering badly from it.
We stop a block from the rendezvous point, and step from the vehicle. The driver is quick to turn back and escape, our proximity to the enemy becoming very thin out here. We work down a couple of streets before reaching a small, closed off square. There, standing beyond one of the numerous acid-rain shelters, I spot our strike team, ready and assembled.
We hurry towards them as they linger, a clear divide among them. There are four hybrids of the Nameless, dressed in their combat gear and armour, and six Stalkers, black-cloaked and pale of skin. I’m fully aware that our men will have been informed of Cromwell’s duplicity, and the threat these Stalkers may pose. It’s difficult to trust them now, and heading out beyond our lines alongside them isn’t a hugely appealing idea.
Still, at least we have that heads up. To a man, they’re ready and expecting of a possible coup. If it comes, they’ll see it. All have one eye on the enemy, and one eye on the Stalkers.
My brother is aware of that too. As we approach the group, and he takes command, he’s very quick to reference the need for collaboration and a single, undeviating focus.
Speaking mostly to the Nameless hybrids, he says, “We work as one, as we have been for days. The Cure are set to break through our lines at any moment. It is down to us, and the other teams, to prevent that from happening. We require complete trust in each other to get this done. Do you understand?”
His inference is clear, and our men know it. They nod at him and grunt their agreement. The Stalkers appear unaware of the hidden messages. Though, it would be very hard to confirm it, given their ingrained detachment.
Mostly, the group have been operating around the blockades in the south. All appear grizzled and tired, though it shows less with the Stalkers. We spend a few minutes getting updates, debating exactly which is the best route through our flanks. In order to seek further information, it’s decided that we confer with the unit commander here, the equivalent of Titus over to the west.
We venture away from the shelter and further south towards the very front of the line. I had considered that, perhaps, the shelter would give us access to the underlands, and thus a way of sneaking behind the enemy undetected. In other quarters, that may be possible, but it would appear that here it isn’t. I don’t bother questioning it, thinking that Zander must have considered the option before choosing another.
The tight network of lanes is fairly quiet and still as we approach what appears to be the front lines. The numbers of soldiers, collected in their little groups, grows to a point where almost all alleyways and lanes are being watched. Those that aren’t, I’m sure, will be guarded by other means. Such will have sentry guns. Others will have been blocked and barricaded. Those that remain clear will no doubt lead to dead ends, or else be reachable only via passage down another, guarded alley.
With so few men to spare in these channels, it’s clearly critical to manage our soldiers well. I defer to those commanding these streets on that level, and imagine that the task must be both difficult and extremely stressful. One wrong allocation of soldiers to the wrong place could result in a successful breach by the enemy testing our flanks. And, as we’re well aware, a single breach can be fatal.
That is now what we’re striving for. To breach their lines in not one, but four different places. We will have to be well coordinated and quick. We will need to be incisive. Anything else will no doubt end in failure.
The commander at the front lines is aware of the strike. He approaches from his position, a member of the City Guard by his garb, and clearly a Hawk by the light of his eyes. He looks weary, his voice somewhat muted and dulled as we collect to one side and he updates us on all recent action in these parts.
“They’ve been attacking more regularly since last night,” he tells Zander. “Ever since their reinforcements came, they’ve had more people to try to find paths through our flanks. We’ve had little chance to rest, and the ammunition on our sentry guns is running low.”
“That’s why we’re here,” says Zander. “To turn the tide, right here. We need to sneak through the lanes unseen if possible. If we’re spotted, the enemy will be alerted. We could use some guidance from you on that front. Which route would you recommend?”
A map is drawn up on a handheld tablet, and the commander begins taking Zander through the various options. I spend my time intermittently glancing at the conversation and each way down the streets along our lines, trying to spot some sign of Drum, Rhoth, West, or any of the Fangs.
I see none at first, until a strange concoction of fur and regular combat gear comes into view. I send my freshened eyes forward and note that it is one of Rhoth’s men, still wearing his pelts, but with an additional layer of combat armour worn on top for extra protection. I look quickly at Zander as his conversation continues.
“I’ll be back in a second,” I tell him.
“Where are you going?” he frowns.
“Just down the street. I won’t be out of sight.”
He doesn’t spare much thought on the idea of telling me ‘no’, and instead resumes his strategy meeting. I move straight off towards the little pocket of men protecting one of the lanes, and quickly come upon the Fang in question. I don’t recognise him as one of Rhoth’s core hunters, but do from the village. I come up on him quick, startling him a little.
“Hey!”
He turns, his necklace absent. I assume he’s been told to put it away to stop all the jingling of teeth.
“Oh, hello. Brie, yes?”
“Yeah. Is Rhoth here?”
I turn my eyes around, searching for him. The man’s voice draws me back.
“Yes. He is further down the street.”
“Thank you!” I say.
I rush straight on, betraying my promise to Zander to stay within sight. I pass several more alleys, drawn by some need to see Rhoth a final time. But really, it’s Drum I’m hoping to find among these little groups and squads. His frame won’t be hard to miss.
I give myself a minute or so to search, even using my Dasher speed to cover the ground quickly before my brother notices. Half a dozen alleys and lanes from the f
irst Fang, the unique shape of his tribal leader comes into view. Standing guard, with an outfit peppered in blood and soot and a beard that looks like it needs a good long wash, I find Rhoth alongside several other soldiers. He may not know these streets, but he’s a leader of men, and it appears to me that he’s been given charge of this little area.
I speed towards him and draw a pair of narrow, tired eyes to me. They barely have the strength to widen as I skid to a stop in front of him. His reaction is delayed, owing to slowing synapses. Then he smiles and a croaky voice crawls up his throat.
“Ah, the girl has come,” he says. “We heard you were alive, and Zander too. People doubted it. I never did.”
“And I never doubted you either, Rhoth,” I beam. “How are your men? Is West here?”
“West, yes. He is here. On watch. Better not disturb him.”
I nod.
“Of course. And…your other hunters?”
His brow crinkles.
“We fight on,” he says. “We will always fight on.”
It’s an ambiguous response, typical of the man. Yet it’s clear to me that several more of his tribespeople have fallen. Each one is a bitter blow, chipping away at his people. Soon, only the old and young will remain, the generations in between - all those who can fight - lost to this war. And the Fangs will fade, forgotten by the world. It’s a poignant thought, yet Rhoth remains here, fighting for good. He is, in many ways, one of the best men I’ve ever met.
I feel a bunch of emotion at the thought, and force myself to withdraw. I have to keep my mind on my mission, and away from this. Seeing Rhoth, and the pain hidden behind his eyes, only compounds the grief that I hold back, deep inside me. I will let it loose when all this is done. But now I cannot let it see the light.
“I…I have to go,” I tell the mighty Fang. “My brother is waiting…”
