by Andrew Post
“I don’t like to think of it as running away. Though it probably is. I prefer the notion that it’s me taking the problem by the horns. Going out, making things happen. I’ll repay those to whom I’m indebted—and the checks to you and your squad will clear—but it may take some time.”
“You’re lucky my house’s paid off.”
Ruprecht made a small snort, smiling, nodding. “Yes. And . . . I’d like to be unprofessional a moment again, if you’d allow it. I’ll share this next piece of information if you agree to keep my first secret.”
She held back a sigh. “All right.”
“A man came to the office late last year. He told me he had a story about a snow-elf woman, leader of a contractor squad. And while she and her team were en route to the war, they stumbled across one of the orcs’ escaped trolls. And how she, in a dire situation—”
“Cut the shit. Who was it?”
“He said his name was Erik Redmondt.”
Should’ve known. In those late boozy nights, before arguing took center stage of their relationship, when sex was still something they did—early on, it’s practically all they did—and after a roll, sweaty and red-faced, they’d share a smoke and tell each other stories. Head on his chest, using the ceiling as a white screen for projecting memories, she wouldn’t skip a detail. They’d repeat their recollections, more perfect with each retelling. The distinction between memory and story was foggy to her. And maybe that’s where the definition of story lay. Not interpreted, not fibbed up or exaggerated into a fish tale or legend, but shifted by small innocent additions and exclusions over time, each pass its own. Regardless of the distance from the truth by the end, having heard them enough times, Erik could probably recount her story—some iteration, anyway—as accurately as she could.
Well, now she knew he could. The deceit threatened to burn a hole through her.
“I’m offering you this,” Ruprecht said, “as a show of good faith. I’ll pay you and your team, when I can. But, if I may be so bold to request it: I’d like one in return.” He was rolling his Rs again. “If I see you talking to Mann O. Mahan or any single one of the Blackiron Blaggards, I’ll consider this arrangement we have made forfeit. I’ll get hooked to the first wire I find and—”
“Really look at me when I say this, Ruprecht. I’m not gonna do that. Pretty sure you want me to say it’s because I’m under contract with you or because you have something over me you believe I’m deeply ashamed of, but I’ll follow my orders because they came from the Ma’am. Now, since that’s aired out, if you don’t get up, I’m gonna leave you in Yarnigrad.”
Relieved, he chuckled.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? Get on your godsdamned feet.”
* * *
As they exited the theater into the warm morning suns, a barrel-chested informed man with a neatly groomed silver beard approached. The blackcoat was accompanied by a handful of rosy-cheeked recruits carrying their rifles carefully, as if they were cradling slumbering venomous snakes.
“Beg your pardon, good sir, miss, do you two happen to be with Associated Bards Publishing?”
Anoushka, reading the arrangement of polished medals as well as the six golden Xs on his shoulder, determined he was a commander sergeant—a knighted commander sergeant, the same she saw stomping the muckrake’s camera earlier. “That’s us,” she said.
“Sir Gunnar Calhoun.” He removed his visor cap—silver hair parted perfectly, as if set by a ruler. Doffing his cover was as much respect as he was going to show; he didn’t salute, and neither did Anoushka. While contractors and Crown military would, on occasion, involuntarily get paired by the Committee as they shuffled their figurines around on the map in the war room, there was no requirement for either to present respect beyond simple gestures. Neither group was rumored to want this rule to change. “I received a telegram this morning. I understand we’re to retake New Kambleburg together.”
“Until we confirm our target is elsewhere,” Anoushka was sure to put in. She did not want to go; retaking occupied cities was always a class-A clusterfuck. It was the only type of contract she’d flatly decline once named squad captain. Even if her last had facilitated her quick promotion. If the Committee would allow an out—as specified in the telegram—she was going to hold fast to that.
Sir Gunnar nodded. “Met with the Blackiron Blaggards yet? Might be good to have us all sit down and talk over our approach.”
“We haven’t seen them,” Ruprecht said, sounding pleased about the fact.
“Well,” Sir Gunnar said, “at least I ran into the team with the siege engine. That is your squad, correct?”
Anoushka nodded.
“Could really use that, certainly,” Sir Gunnar said. “We won’t be bringing much more than rifles and stick grenades.”
“Won’t the Committee wanna send you some mechanicals of your own?” she said.
“Every piece of rolling armor is being loaded onto a train to the front,” Sir Gunnar said. “The primary, as the Committee calls it. I returned from there last week and have been denied a second tour. Now I’m to oversee the secondary.” The old war dog had been tossed a busywork bone and wasn’t keen about it.
“How’s it going?” Anoushka said.
“On the primary?” The knight’s weather-beaten face tightened. “Trying. But retaking New Kambleburg will aid us. Diminishing the green menace’s resolve on one front will, if successful, hobble the orc. Anything to prevent them from obtaining a foothold in the south. Estimates say they’re more than two-thirds under the Mountain.”
Grim.
“How many men will you be bringing?” Anoushka said, hoping if her squad had to go to New Kambleburg, they’d be aided by more than the dozen sweaty greenhorns Gunnar had with him now.
“We’ve been allowed one locomotive. Fifteen cars, seats for 200 able-bodied lads.” Gunnar went ramrod, adopting the presalute posture but not completing it. The young men with him did likewise, albeit with less practiced crispness. “In two months’ time—if you haven’t found your man by then—we’ll rendezvous on the island and strategize securing the city. May the road through the Scorch be quick. Safe travels.”
“Safe travels,” Anoushka echoed.
The knight replaced his cap but didn’t turn away. “Though it’s sacrosanct to share trusted information imparted to officers, I feel of a mind to say something if you’d allow me, miss.”
“Sounds serious,” Anoushka said.
“It is,” Sir Gunnar said. “The Committee received word that a breakout occurred at Breakshale Penitentiary. The surviving gobs gave the description of the culprits: a blonde woman, a dwarf, an elderly gal dressed in rags. Said they’d wounded one of them, the supposed leader of the insurgency, a north-born elf woman.” The knight’s gaze drifted to Anoushka’s bandaged leg. “But she’d made it out, limping, leading away one of the prison’s most hardened.”
Sir Gunnar’s men were none the wiser, and all exchanged confused looks when the knight’s leathery face creased a smile, his silver moustache hooking high. “Heard of anyone like that?”
“Can’t say I have,” Anoushka said, pulse speeding.
The knight shrugged. “Alas. If you do happen to cross paths with a lot matching that description, please promptly send off a deet.” He moved a half step closer to Anoushka, bowing in. “The men they’ve put on their trail are a day behind. But nobody can outrun the wire.” He motioned to something behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. On the brick wall of the apothecary’s side were six pieces of paper glued to the wall. Each wanted poster had a scratchy drawing: a snarling snow-elf woman stared back at her. A thousand julas was the reward.
“I don’t care about the Law of Neutrality,” Sir Gunnar said. “To me, it’s a more wordy way of the gobs declaring their cowardice. I do, however, greatly enjoy the company of those who are willing to dive headlong into the blazes alongside me, to fight for their realm.”
“Thank you,” she said
.
“Thank you,” Sir Gunnar said. “See you there.” With that, the knight spun in place, stopping sharp once facing the way he wanted to go. He leaned forward, as if he were walking against a gale, and led his men away.
Anoushka watched the knight go, shaking her head. This wasn’t good. For many reasons.
Wherever Anoushka went, people always gave her looks. North-borns are, after all, a rare sight anywhere farther south than the Ranges. Each townsperson who gave her the up-down once-over probably had reason. Wanted posters embed in people’s minds. Those leering sketches become haunts, unclear monsters that roam amid good people, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Before anyone could think to suggest that the scowling elf in the picture was Anoushka, she tore down her poster, then Kylie-Nae’s, Russell’s, and Lodi’s. The artist had made Lodi look particularly ghastly. Kylie-Nae’s rendering was flattering. Russell had been made to look like a bearded baked potato.
As Anoushka and Ruprecht started toward Joan and her waiting squad, Ruprecht said, “This is a positive turn, right? We have help. Good help, direct from the Crown. And they believe Lyle is there, leading the city’s occupation. One stone.”
“Except we’re being chased right where we don’t wanna go.”
“What do you mean ‘where we don’t wanna go’? We agreed we’d meet Sir Gunnar there.” Ruprecht ran into her back when she stopped.
“We don’t want Lyle to be there. Do you get it? Sometimes—only once in a blue moon—the scryers are wrong. They’ll say they think they’ve felt someone’s using magick somewhere, and it’ll end up being a bad read. Especially anything past the interference of the Scorch. Which is what I’m counting on. If you ask me, it’s probably the Committee’s way of slapping us onto another assignment without canceling the original contract outright. They’ve pulled that kind of shit before. But lemme guess: you think it’d make for a good story, us retaking the city.”
“I do, matter of fact.”
She motioned the way Sir Gunnar had gone. “The Committee offering help? Good help? Not what I’d call a positive turn.”
“So what’s our approach to be, Captain?” Ruprecht huffed.
“We’ll start heading southeast. We’ll keep looking for any sign Lyle’s not there, anything that’ll let us dodge NK. Let the blackcoats go deal with that mess. We’ve already got our job.”
* * *
Anoushka ducked under the side panel of Joan’s raised flank and climbed up and in.
Russell and Zuther, feet to feet, helped each other stretch their legs while Kyle-Nae performed dry runs between the cannonball cage and the breach, tossing in invisible sachets and pouring in pretend squirts of ignition oil.
Anoushka flopped into her seat.
The workers Ruprecht had hired—or coerced—had done fine work. Everything from the small springs in the brake squeezers to the foot pedals and the view out her periscope were tip-top—no cracked reflections, no blinding bends in the mirror shafts. Pristine. The old girl had been treated well.
But she noticed one addition. At the front, left of the cannon breach, a big brass flower of a spiralphone had been installed, its bell angled at the squad. “Blazes is that doing in here?”
Ruprecht appeared at the open side. “I won’t be able to ride with you, unfortunately. And with Markus . . . gone, I wanted a means to capture the captain’s commands and squad banter. I’ll admit, my one weakness as a writer is I fail when it comes to jargon; therefore, this is the best way I knew how to be here, while not actually being here taking up precious space and getting in the way. I had my men install a mechanism to feed off the tension engine—”
“What? I pedal to keep us moving,” Zuther said, “not so you can hear what we’re saying.” Though he’d met Ruprecht only minutes prior, Zuther had already fallen in with the others’ attitude toward the bard.
“Mister Fuath, you haven’t signed a contract with me yet. Remind me to not pay you for any time and work you do between now and then.” Ruprecht’s gaze drifted Anoushka’s way.
Although she wanted to scream, He’s broke, she kept silent. It’d only make trouble she’d have to deal with.
“Think I give even half a shit about pay?” Zuther said. “I was a fucking monk. And they don’t let you stay with them for free. I did, daily, twice as much work as a man getting paid twice as much—which is to say: not a single damn jula. But go on, threaten me again.” He returned to focusing on pumping the tension engine, aggravation aiding the oomph he put into it.
While Anoushka admired his salt, she wondered if Zuther would be this bold if Kylie-Nae weren’t right over there, listening.
“Seems the House of the Loving Flame failed to instill compassion and understanding in you, Zuther,” Ruprecht said. “Most unfortunate.”
“You’ll think something’s unfortunate when I instill that stupid hat in your ass.”
Ruprecht turned half-mast eyes to Anoushka. “Anyway, I’ve purchased a replacement horse for my caravan and another for Peter. Miss Springborn will be riding with me; she isn’t feeling well. We’ll follow. Peter’s already gone ahead.”
“Yeah, I saw him,” Anoushka said.
Just like Matthew used to, Peter was giving himself a head start, a quiver of signal flags on his back. Good place for a protagonist, she privately scoffed.
Ruprecht produced a flask, held it high. “So, with our party complete, allow me to say, here’s to a fruitful outing full of derring-do and—”
“Move,” Kylie-Nae said and tugged on the chain to drop the side flank.
It boomed home, and only meager shafts from the small forward and side ports permitted any morning light, motes of white dust. Anoushka decided this was the best time to break the bad news to her squad about the Committee on their heels.
“But they don’t know it was you guys for sure?” Zuther said.
“No. But they have our description. And after what happened here,” she gestured out the side armor toward nearby Yarnigrad, “they’ll have a few more descriptions, once they ask around.” She slid open the slot in the steel, peering out into the pink suns dappling the town—and the watching eyes of the gab-ready townsfolk. “Sooner or later, they’ll make the connection, like Sir Gunnar did.”
“Meaning, we’ll be liable to get hanged for breaking the Law of Neutrality,” Russ said, “then hanged again for treason because we did it while on a Crown job.”
Anoushka closed the screeching side slot. “Pretty much.”
“So what do we do?” Kylie-Nae said.
“If we push hard for a couple of days, we can keep our head start.” She thanked the ether, the fates, the gods she didn’t believe in, because Sir Gunnar was willing to give them a pass if it meant having Joan and her operators on the frontline with him. He could’ve easily tossed them into another cell and waited for his superiors to arrive. “What do we say, people? Do we sit and wait, raise the white flag?”
“Blazes no!” three voices replied.
“Like I thought.”
A palpable thrill passed over the squad. The dust stirred as Zuther and Russell pedaled and pedaled. Anoushka rested her hands on the control yoke’s handles, fingers poised on the brake squeezers.
They all waited for the bell. On each face a building smirk—here it comes.
Anoushka watched in the aft-view mirror as Ruprecht waved impatiently, signaling he was ready to go.
“I’d love to,” Anoushka muttered, “but we need the bell.”
The pedalers pedaled. And pedaled. When the bell’s ring should’ve come, instead, the pale yellow wax clamped in the spiralphone began to turn, getting its first grooves scratched in by the small needle. When Ruprecht would listen to it later, the opening minutes would be nothing but a collective cursing of his name. But with another minute or two of determined pedaling by Russell and Zuther, it finally rang.
Ding!
Name a more beautiful sound.
“Forward, full speed!”
* * *
Up next, we’ve got some Aerosmith with “Back in the Saddle.” Later, some Sabbath. But, you know, with “Back in the Saddle,” with the clip-clop beat meant to evoke chargin’ stallions, and that, you could say it’s supposed to bring to mind a classic Western. To me, especially the line about ridin’ high, I take it as returning to something which is probably not good for you, but you really, really, really enjoy. I kicked drugs about ten years back. Just couldn’t have that stuff in my life. But you know, sometimes—I think about what it’d be like, one last time, to go back to that bad thing I really, really enjoyed. Get back on that saddle and let it take me where it will. I don’t, because then who’d play music for you all? Anyway, this is DJ Cliffy Cohen. Keep it tuned here.
Back in the Saddle
For the first fifty miles, the radio hadn’t come on. They didn’t need it. Being here, with these people doing this was the only needed fuel. It was as if they had boiling tar for blood. Boiling tar that was on fire. This, Anoushka knew, was all she needed. All she’d ever need. Being on the road, with these people.
She peeked past her periscope shaft. Russell and Zuther kicked the pedals when they needed torque, and neither was losing their enthusiasm. They whooped and cracked palms together, thumped shoulders, bolstering each other; friends.
Kylie-Nae kept an eye out through the thick forward viewport. Anoushka wondered if she was thinking about Matthew and if having Peter up there in his stead ate at her. She gave no indication. Simply did her duty, watching for flags.
Triggering a new lens, Anoushka changed her periscope to rear view. The caravan was keeping up. At some point, Lodi had taken to sitting next to Ruprecht on the caravan’s bench. She looked awful, leaning in her seat, eyes closed, arms wrapped around her middle.
Though fearing it’d bloat the wizardess’s ego to say as much, Anoushka couldn’t deny Lodi was a crucial component of the team; Lodi hadn’t exaggerated just to be self-deprecating when she’d told Ruprecht how little magick she knew. The image of Sharona Howell’s head opening like a nut in a vise came to Anoushka—she shook it away. She was probably guilty. Anoushka repeated this, silently, to herself, until she believed it.
