Dominus stared at him. He downed the rest of his drink and called for another. Meric was surprised to find his own empty. He was halfway through the next, or the one after that, when the spirits in him gave birth to a small hope.
“Maybe her task is a short one. Maybe she’ll return soon,” Meric said.
“Oh yes! I’m sure they’ll keep her no longer than Desi,” Dominus said acidly. Desi had been gone six long years. Dominus slammed his mug down and headed through the crowd.
“Where are you going?” Meric asked.
“The spirits call for release!” Dominus yelled, moving toward the latrine.
Meric grew steadily drunker. Time moved strange. Friends came and went. There was much talk without clear purpose. The children of Goshu Dius gnawed on their souls. Thoughts of Swan penetrated. When would she back? A week? A year? To think the answer might be never…
A hollow ache radiated through his chest.
“It’s for the best,” he told the pressure building inside him.
“It’s God’s Will,” he told his fingers as they dug into the lacquered countertop.
“God’s Will…” said Dominus. He was staring at Meric with a lazy smile. Malevolence swam in his glassy eyes.
“Tell me, Meric. Why was her dress torn?” Dominus asked.
His tone was a caricature of innocent curiosity. Meric stared at him. It had been a mistake to tell Dominus all Swan’s father had said. Dominus would shine a light on questions Meric had relegated to the darkness.
“You said she came back from the fields with her dress torn,” Dominus said.
“Swan’s father said that,” Meric corrected.
“But why?” Dominus asked. He was moving in a direction too monstrous to contemplate.
Meric mumbled a vague reply.
“Why, Meric?” Dominus repeated.
“How should I know?” he growled.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Stop it.”
“What do you think they took Desi for? What do the wise and powerful Plutarchs need with a pretty little girl? What do they need with a beautiful young woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But I know what some men might do when left to themselves, with no one to answer to, with no one to stop them. What would they do, Meric?”
“Shut up.”
“What would they do?” Dominus asked again.
“Shut up,” Meric yelled.
“Anything they want. That’s what some men would do. So what did Gallatius do to Swan in the strawberry fields?”
Meric couldn’t speak. Dominus leaned in close. His dark eyes filled the world.
“Anything he f–”
The next thing Meric knew, they were on the floor, tumbling and rolling, crashing into tables and people. There was a satisfaction in being unleashed, in being moved beyond control. Some ancient compartment of his brain welcomed the chaos.
The children of Goshu Dius ran wild with delight.
*
The recruits gathered the following morning. Meric and Dominus met in an atmosphere of shared defeat.
“Apparently we fought last night,” Dominus said.
“You were haunted,” Meric said, glancing at him.
“I–I don’t remember much.”
“It was the spirits’ doing,” Meric said, waving his hand. He wasn’t clear on the details either–and the parts he was clear on, he wanted to forget. He avoided any mention of Swan.
For the first time, the recruits were tested with atomblades. When they’d first answered the Calling, Meric had assumed weapons would play a big role. Instead, they’d played almost no role whatsoever.
“I can train you how to thrust or shoot. I can’t train you how to keep going when the next step feels impossible, when the will is sapped and the body broken,” Instructor Boson had told them.
Now that the majority of recruits had been eliminated with endurance and environmental tests, Boson introduced the atomblade and the skinnygun into their daily trials. None but Dominus and Avigon could challenge Meric with the atomblade.
Avigon had fought in the recent tourney, but Hadric had put him out in the first round. The little man was exceedingly nimble, and his hands were deft. He was of a serious, almost somber demeanor, bowing formally before and after each fight. His father had made First Bladesman. Later in life, the man had become a merchant on Market Ave, selling painted clay figures he and his wife sculpted with materials brought in from the Wildlands. He was in the upper echelon of Plebian society–the richest of the poor.
Avigon respected skill, strength, and effort. He held Meric in high regard. Avigon never drank though, and he turned down all invitations to the spirithouse, which was why Dominus dismissed him as “stuffy.” None could dismiss him when paired in a duel.
Meric’s skills with the atomblade did not extend to ranged weapons, unfortunately. When they first lined up in the clearing outside Panchaea, aiming at circular targets halfway to the tree line, he had a hard time getting the range down. Loading one of the long, tapering black rods into the mechanical gun, he remarked to Dominus:
“Maybe we should ask the Plutarchs for better weapons.”
“Stop!” Instructor Boson’s voice boomed out.
Everyone paused. Boson gathered them together.
“Recruit Adams has a high-minded suggestion. Adams?
“I didn’t mean anything by it, patruus,” Meric said, face burning.
“No, no. Share with the group, won’t you?”
“I was just saying why don’t we ask the Plutarchs for better weapons, patruus?”
“Like the turrets on the wall–is that your thinking, Adams? Why use these paltry needle-throwers? Why not ask for something that shoots invisible beams? For that matter, why use atomblades at all?” Boson shouted.
The Instructor gestured to a veteran assisting with the trials. The man brought out two artifacts. Meric assumed they were projectile weapons, yet they weren’t nearly long enough to hold a bolt.
“This question comes up every Calling. Just so happens we have such weapons. Adams, take this gun and aim it at the target,” Boson said, holding out one of the artifacts. Meric took the gun. The trigger was similar to a skinnygun’s, but nothing else was familiar.
“Where do I load the projectile, patruus?” Meric asked.
“I thought you wanted better weapons. Aim and shoot, for Fog’s sake,” Boson said.
Meric squinted down the barrel at a target and pressed the trigger. The gun thrummed. The air grew wavy. Instantly, the target burst into flames. Gasps and scattered applause went up from the recruits. Boson took back the gun.
“Godsblood,” Meric muttered.
“You’ve got the right idea, Adams–Divine power. Here. Take this and start walking toward those trees,” the Instructor said, thrusting the gun at Dominus.
Warily, Dominus took the weapon toward the edge of the clearing.
“Stop. Take aim,” Boston shouted.
“At what target, patruus?” Dominus shouted back.
Boson took three steps away from Meric and pointed at him.
“Recruit Adams.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Meric’s heart hammered in his chest. The Instructors wouldn’t sacrifice a recruit just to make a point, would they? Someone behind him hastened to move out of the line of fire. Downfield, Dominus hesitated.
“Take aim!” Boson roared.
Slowly, Dominus’s arm rose. Meric swallowed, feeling a stab of uncertainty.
“Now shoot.”
The arm wavered.
“Shoot, I say!”
Nothing happened.
“It’s not firing, patruus,” Dominus shouted.
“Guess you live to train another day,” Boson said to Meric.
Dominus returned and handed the weapon to the Instructor.
“When the American Empire fell, why did God spare Panchaea from the Smiting?” Boson asked. He pointed at Avigon.
“To save the faithful, patruus,” Avigon said.
“And how do the Plutarchs know we are still worthy of God’s mercy?”
“They send us into the Wildlands to test our faith, patruus.”
“If the Wildlands were meant to be conquered with the press of a button, it would’ve been done long ago. The Wildlands are not here for our convenience. The Wildlands test the faithful. Weakness must not be allowed to fester in the Holy City. We are given armor. We are given blades. But weapons like these will cease to function halfway across this clearing. Such is God’s Will.”
“Patruus, is that also a divine weapon?” Avigon asked, pointing at the second artifact the veteran had brought to Boson.
“Not divine but cleverly made. Behold,” Boson said.
He aimed the second weapon at a target downfield. When he pulled the trigger, there was a loud crack and a flash of fire, startling the recruits. A tiny hole appeared in the target.
“This is a weapon of the ancients. It shoots a small, rounded projectile. Now and then we see one among the savages. However, they only function with the proper ammunition, which you will likely never see. More importantly, a weapon like this cannot penetrate modern armor. Many of the savages have acquired such armor–in some cases whole suits. Only an atomblade or the razor-thin point of a skinnygun bolt can penetrate such protection.”
As they resumed their practice, Meric looked sideways at Dominus.
“Did you know it wouldn’t shoot?” he asked.
“I wasn’t sure,” Dominus admitted.
“And you still pulled the trigger?”
“I’m not an idiot, Meric. Do you think I’d kill my best friend? I was aiming for the grass,” he said quietly, flashing a smile.
*
Their last trial was both simple and brutal.
The Calling required two hundred new soldiers. Four hundred remained. A gray tongue of Fog had flowed out of the city and congealed into a large, enclosed, circuitous obstacle course. The Noose, they called it.
“No one will pass this trial, because there is no way to pass. Keep going as long as you can. If you should falter, kneel and pray, and you shall be delivered,” Thrace told them.
Meric and Dominus were among the first inside. The walls reached for them as they passed, like living mud. Gray sludge pulled at their arms and legs, wrapped around their boots and tried to suck them in. They powered their way free … to reach a five-meter wall pocked with niches barely large enough to fit a toe into. At the top of the wall, rope-rings waited, hanging over a pool filled from the city’s latrines.
Obstacle followed obstacle, calling for the use of shield, skinnygun, and atomblade; for strength and speed; for climbing, balance, and swimming. And when they had conquered the last obstacle, the sludge-hall was there again, leaving them to face not only another circuit but the futility of their own progress.
Meric passed his first kneeler before the initial lap was over. The man was covered in feces from a fall in the pool and had been battered delirious by rotating tourney-blades. As he made the Sign of Fealty, smoky fingers unfurled from the outer wall and pulled him through to the outside. Others began to slow or cramp up. Some merely walked. No one urged them on.
“Have fun wearing yourself out, fogbrains. I’ll be here long after you collapse,” one recruit told Meric and Dominus as they hurried past.
“He’s a fool if he thinks they don’t track everything,” Dominus said. “I figure the Plutarchs don’t want soldiers who’ll look for holes in their orders the moment the Instructors are out of sight. When they say ‘keep going,’ they want to know we’ll keep going hard.”
Meric agreed, but his own motivation carried a different emphasis. Rather than try to puzzle out what mattered, he simply put his faith in the Plutarchs, as he always had. When it became difficult, when he saw a recruit collapse from exhaustion, he reminded himself why he was there. When it became more difficult, when his thoughts lost cohesion, he focused only on the next step, the next breath.
Night fell. The Noose had no ceiling. Stars shone down. One recruit sang old farm songs, bowling onward with the endurance of a masochist.
“Am I hallucinating or is that crazy bastard enjoying himself?” Dominus asked.
Avigon became stuck in waist-high mud. Meric put an arm around his shoulders, and they plodded the course together. At some point the smaller man fell behind again. Meric lost track of Dominus too. He was barely aware of anything but the pain, the friction between the will and the body…
He woke to an Instructor drenching him with a bucket of water. He was lying in the clearing, sunlight beaming down. He must’ve passed out in the night. He spent a day trying to convince himself he’d done enough. At home, Reed asked about the Noose, but Meric grew short-tempered. He left the house, muscles still aching…
…and ended up at the hill where he and Swan had lain together, between the strawberries and the beefpods. He felt empty inside. Dominus’s suspicions came back to him.
What will they do to her?
Anything they want.
“Shut up,” he mumbled. He wanted to stop at Swan’s farm and talk to her parents again, but what was there to say?
The final gathering of recruits took place before the barracks near the northern fields. A prayer-circle was writ into the ground. A statue of Ovus stood to either side. Thrace and Hadric, arrayed in their magnificent silver fogplate, stood with the Instructors. Other legionnaires lingered, laughing or talking or leaning against the barracks, measuring the newcomers.
One by one, the recruits knelt in the prayer-circle and made the Sign of Fealty. For some, the wall opened. For others, it remained blank and impassable, forcing the recruit to depart in shame. When Dominus knelt in the circle, Meric’s heart skipped a beat. Would his friend’s blasphemous tendencies finally return to haunt him? The wall remained blank longer than it should have. A flicker of doubt crossed Dominus’s face. But then the barracks opened, and Dominus rose, beaming, and disappeared inside as the legionnaires applauded.
Avigon was solemn and dignified when it was his turn. No one ever doubted he’d make it. Horus, the broad-shouldered recruit who’d sang songs for the entire obstacle course, entered with a big smile.
Finally it was Meric’s turn. He’d barely finished signing himself when the wall yawned into the interior. It was a momentous occasion, a major shift in his life, and the only thing that kept him from fully appreciating it was Swan’s absence, which shadowed his thoughts, undermining his joy.
CHAPTER 6
“This man was one of you,” Thrace said.
The First Marksman was standing in the center of the conference room. Meric was seated with his twenty-man pentacrus. The other four pentas in his century were spread around the room. A laserpainter had conjured a bloody image in the air above Thrace. A dismembered hand and half a face were the only recognizable parts. The legionnaires sat straighter, faces grim.
“His name was Aureus. His pentacrus was overwhelmed by savages,” Thrace said. “This was not done during the battle, however. Aureus surrendered. Weeks later, we found him like this.”
Thrace gestured at the gruesome image.
“The Smiting left only the cruelest of our species to toil in the Wildlands. Even death is preferable to capture at their hands … which is why you’ll each be given one of these.”
Thrace held something small and white between his thumb and forefinger.
“It fits over your upper right incisor–here. Bite down hard enough and the cap will crack. The poison will end things quickly. Much faster than they ended for Aureus.”
*
“Looked like he’d been put through a meat grinder,” Dominus said.
They were in the eatery in the barracks. Two months into their training, they mostly saw each other at mealtimes. They’d been placed in separate centuries, which meant they trained apart–except when the centuries faced off in mock battles.
The soldier’s life fit Mer
ic well. He’d practiced the atomblade for years, but now his every effort was dedicated to combat-related routines. The activity had pushed thoughts of Swan into the background; they manifested only in quiet moments, or on the edge of sleep, or in dreams. He refused to acknowledge any bitterness over her absence–she was with the Plutarchs. She had a higher calling. She would live a better life in the floating palaces than she ever could below. What did it matter if he missed her?
“Did you hear me?” Dominus asked, nudging Meric.
“Huh? Yeah. Meat grinder. Thrace said it was done by Trajan’s men.”
“Trajan. What is it with that man? Everyone’s terrified of him,” Dominus said.
“Some say he’s a demon. A son of Ozymandias.”
“And some say they shit roses–that don’t make it true … But it’s him we’ll be going after, you know,” Dominus said, giving Meric a significant look.
“Trajan?”
“It’s what I hear,” Dominus said, shrugging.
*
Thrace soon confirmed the rumor: Trajan, the savage-king, was the target of the upcoming campaign. He’d attempted to dam the Great River–which the Priests called Donum Lacrimarum, the Gift of Tears. It was said the river had sprung to life when God had wept for the sins of the ancients. The river flowed through Panchaea, where it drove the Holy Turbines which powered the Fog. Naturally, God had not allowed it to be dammed. Still, the Plutarchs had taken it as a sign that the wickedness in the Wildlands should be curbed.
“Panchaea is God’s gift to the righteous,” Thrace said. “We must not forget this. It is we, the faithful, who will carry out this task. We will find Trajan. We will thin his ranks. We will kill or capture the savage-king himself.”
The legion would consist of four full centuries, an unprecedented number, though it would be split in two. Each half was to contain a veteran century and a rookie century–which meant Meric and Dominus, being in opposing rookie centuries, would be separated further.
One group would head northwest into the Wildlands. The other would sweep east. The full legion would converge to the north, hopefully with better intel on Trajan’s location. The savage-king was elusive. In recent years, there’d been a buildup of savages, and it was feared Trajan was drawing new tribes from adjacent lands. Meric never questioned the need for the campaign. Dominus was more probing.
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