Blaze of Heroes

by C. J. Strange

  “Other than 'seeing otherworldly potential' in me?” I chuckle and shake my head. “No idea.”

  “Hey do you think your captain would mind if I did want to come along?”

  “My captain? Hope?” I blink. “No, not at all! She seems to really like you.”

  “She does?” Juniper perks up. Penny's approval must be important to her for some reason. “So, she and the Scottish fellow, they're an item?”

  I chuckle. I may still not be entirely over my jealousy and insecurity issues when it comes to Penny, but Alfie seems to be in a worse place than I am. Which is reassuring, to say the least.

  “No,” I say, sipping water from the monstrosity one of the women serving gave me when I asked for a mug. The rim's ridiculously thick and the handle's too big for my hand. I wish I'd brought my own over to the northern bailey from the van, but at the same time, I'm grateful I didn't. I've already watched two drinking vessels destroyed by drunken shenanigans.

  Novanites know how to party, it would seem. I'm becoming less and less surprised Alfie is a follower of the Sun Mother.

  “It's not really anything that serious. They're both, uh, passionate people,” I say, finally deciding on how to phrase it. “They've found a way to channel that passion. But I guess Diesel didn't know about it.”

  “And he fancies Hope?”

  “He's fancied Hope since they were kids growing up together down in Portsmouth.” Another sip, another grimace. The water is too hard, too limey, and I want my own bloody mug. “She'd probably add him to the roster if he just asked. But he either hasn't admitted it to himself yet, or isn't ready to admit it to her.”

  She laughs. “Roster?”

  I squirm, realizing what I just said. “More my verbiage than anyone else’s,” I struggle, but she’s already smirking at me.

  “So, you saw yourself with her, too?”

  I can feel my cheeks darkening, heating up. I’m grateful it’s so dark out, even this close to the enormous pyre. “Once. I, we, we were close. She was proud of me. There were a few times I think she might’ve been hinting or pushing for something more, but…”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “I didn’t want to notice.” My face must be full of every single drop of blood I have in my body, for how flushed it feels. “I guess I was afraid. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her, wasn’t in the same league. I don’t even think they’d let me be towel boy. You know?”

  My uneasy chuckle does little to encourage one from her, and she stares at me flatly. “You need to start cutting yourself some slack, OP,” she says, at a much quieter volume than before. “A lot of girls would find you charming. And handsome.”

  “That’ll be the day,” I half-joke, and shake my head. “To be honest, it’s partly Diesel.”

  “Diesel?”

  I nod. “Until he’s figured out how he feels about Hope, I’m not sure I want to push any buttons I don’t know exist.”

  Juniper chews her lower lip. “Did you think it’d cause any sort of rift in the brigade at all?”

  I don't even have need to think before I'm shaking my head in negation.

  “No,” I say firmly. “Penny wouldn't let it. In fact, I don't know if any of us would let it. Most of us, at least. We all have a higher calling than ourselves, that's why we're still doing what we do.”

  The warmth of Juniper's smile is radiant. “I hope the Sun Mother blesses me with a brigade as unified as yours one day, OP. But until that time, life is a journey, and the world is an unmarked map. I'm excited to start putting pen to paper and making some marks.”

  A heavy shadow falls suddenly across our blanket. When I look up, Duncan's looming over us, arms folded over his trademark leather bomber.

  “Juniper, lass, I don't suppose I could trouble ye with taking this to Felix?” Duncan hands our new friend a glass tumbler of water, and motions to where Rhys has joined a circle of acoustic musicians, found a tambourine, and appears to be having the time of his life. He's not normally a social one, so I'll take my hat off to him, he's doing better than I am.

  “I tell ye, that eejit needs to get back here pronto-like,” he's griping, more to himself than either one of us. “I'm sick of being the only roaster in this brigade looking to get out the game!”

  Again, Juniper turns to me, bewildered.

  “Drunk,” I translate, nodding to the glass. “Go ahead, I'll wait here.”

  Juniper chuckles, stands, and leaves. Either she's more than happy to help, or she understands Duncan's blatant request for privacy with me. When she's out of earshot, the Scotsman sinks into a crouch beside me, close enough that only I can hear.

  “Aye, wee'yin,” he mutters. “Let's not be letting our guards down too lightly now, eh?”

  I nod fervently. “Of course!” I do my best not to cry out. “We have no idea who this pride of Novanites are. And as genial and benevolent as Elder Beaumont has been to us, when our name is announced like that, we always have to be alert.”

  The Scotsman grimaces. “Nae only them, laddie,” he asserts sternly. “Took us a while to properly trust the new boy, didn't it?”

  I close my mouth as I understand what he's trying to nail through my thick skull. Juniper.

  “Oh.”

  Duncan whips a hand out, gripping the bench to balance himself. He's probably more than a couple pints in at this point. “Yer fine, wee'yin, yer fine,” he deflects, shaking his head. “Dunnae worry. But keep yer wits about you, eh? At all times, if you know what I mean.”

  “I would agree,” purrs a smooth voice from above, flavoured with a slight staccato inflection that betrays a German accent. A voice I don't recognize. A voice belonging to a man who has clearly been listening in on us. “You never know exactly who's claiming to be your ally.”

  7 Duncan's Dominance

  Aye… right, then.

  I guess it makes sense someone might be eavesdropping in on our conversation. Guess it makes sense someone just heard me admit to how bloody suspicious we are.

  I let out a long, low groan. All of a sudden, I want to be sober again. And any native Scotsman who tells you he suddenly wants to be sober when he's as out his tree as I am clearly has problems so astronomical even alcohol cannae fix them.

  I cast my eyes skyward, eager to meet those of whoever's decided they're big enough to not only earwig our private conversation, but interrupt it. And immediately note that any roaster who actively chooses to wear leather that's nae a jacket deserves what tiny amount of respect this one's about to get from me.

  “Oh, I'm sorry, laddie.” My accent comes out so thick when I've had a few bevvies, I cannae help it. “I wasn'ae aware we had added a third participant to our little chat, here. Ye had a comment or opinion of some kind that ye had to share?”

  The lad (Izzey, I think it was) is far too pretty for my liking. Not that I'm at all homophobic, mind. I've just found over the years I've spent wandering this world, pretty lads who know how pretty they are tend to be… what's a polite way to put it…

  Absolute fecking wankheads.

  “Oh, no, please.” Izzey shakes his head. “Don't let me stop you. I only meant to concur—you never know who you're travelling with. I imagine your captain needs you all ship-shape and Bristol fashion for tomorrow's undertaking. Not allowing yourself to get too comfortable will keep you alive for many Winternights to come.”

  I cannae decide if I dislike his attitude or his twisty-twirly moustache more. “Oi.” My voice sounds like it's dropped several tones and settled deep in my chest. I wonder if it would've done that so quickly had the wee'yin not been involved in this. “That wouldn'ae be a threat now, would it?”

  Izzey seems taken aback. But I wouldn'ae buy it, even if Oliver hadn't removed all of our BitIDs shortly after he took care of the captain's. Getting used to a life of illegal Coin has been an interesting journey.

  “A threat?” he gasps. “Of course not. What in Britain would I have to threaten you over? I was merely agreeing with your str
ategy, and sharing my own expertise. It's an approach that's served me well personally in the past.”

  “Which one?” I fire right back, a lot steadier in conversation than I currently am in my wee crouched position. “Keeping yer wits about you, or flapping yer gob?”

  Oliver is snapping his head back and forth between the two of us. The lad's like a little brother to me, truly, him and the eejit. It's hard to trust folk with your life again and again and not form some sort of bond or sense of mutual respect with them. Aye. Alfie and I dunnae often see eye-to-eye, and we're constantly ripping the shite out of each other. But as far as I'm concerned, my brigade is my family. No exceptions.

  And my job is to keep them alive, and keep them doing what they do.

  “Well. Both.” Izzey chuckles, rubbing his bearded chin. “They may seem counterintuitive to one another, but you'd be surprised. They can often be the one and the same.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Oh, aye,” he repeats, and I would deck him here and now, but it's far from the first time I've had my accent mocked in this God-forsaken country. “Well, see what I just learned from 'flapping my gob'. I learned that not only are you paranoid, you're excitable too.”

  I take that as my cue to stand. He may be about my height, but I'm a darn sight stockier than he. I want him well aware he wouldn't weigh as much as I do soaking wet and holding everything he owns. And that muckle of a beard of his would hold a retain amount of water.

  It's age-old instinct, primal, from a time back when we used to square off with sabre-tooth tigers and the like. And that cannae be unwired, regardless of how we're evolving as a species to a point where our appearance is nae longer an indicator of what we're capable of physically.

  “Excitable?”

  Oliver swallows. It's nae audible, but my hyper-sensitive hearing picks up on it nonetheless. I don't blame the lad; he recognizes that tone from missions we've run together. When my words get all soft and gentle like that, when I reach that slightly higher pitch, the proverbial fan may be about to get covered in shite.

  “Oh no. Trust me. This? This is nae excitable.”

  Aye, so Captain Starling would likely recommend a less aggressive method of approach to this predicament. And, to be completely honest? So might I, if I were any less rat-arsed at current. There's a solid reason I dunnae drink at least six hours prior to any mission, and a simple reason at that: I cannae be trusted.

  “But if you so much as even entertain the notion of approaching one of my brigade mates in this sort of a manner again,” I continue in a thickening Lowlands drawl, “I'm gonnae put my fist down you, take ahold of them ridiculous leather trews—by the behind, no less—and clean yer insides out with them.”

  My head is spinning. No clue if it's the booze or the adrenaline at this point. I'm all big and angry, my chest puffed out like some sort of jacked-up pro-wrestler awaiting his opponent's response to the promo of the goddamn century. I would also actually like to vomit, just a wee bit, but that one's definitely on account of the booze.

  Aye, there's nae backing down now. He started it. And I'm tanked enough to use that as an excuse.

  Izzey's eyes widen and he puts a hand on his chest. Acting surprised, offended even. I still dunnae want to pay good sterling for it. I can tell from here how cheap it is.

  “Well,” he says. “If that's the way you feel, then I'll be sure to keep my distance. Unless I feel the unusual urge to be gracious, that is.” He winks at me, and I cannae help but scoff back.

  “Nevertheless,” Izzey goes on, “I truly hope you all enjoy your stay. Arundel is a remarkable place, truly remarkable. What Elder Beaumont and his pride have done for Novanism, the changes they've made—it's revolutionary.”

  He flashes a cordial smile, which I choose nae to return. My face is too cosy, settled into its frown. As he leaves, I drop my eyes to Oliver. I'm nae surprised to see accusal all over his wee face.

  “I know, I know…” I shake my head. “But you know what, laddie. I'm sure it's exactly what the cap' would've done.”

  I may as well have summoned her. Because at that precise moment, Cap shows up, as if from nowhere. She's beautiful in the glow of the bonfire; it's warm and rich on her white skin, capturing the curves of muscles that could probably kill two or three men at once. She walks with purpose though, which sobers me instantly.

  “Lass?”

  “Any sign of Diesel?” Penny comes to a halt beside Oliver, arms crossed over her chest. I notice she's still wearing the jumper she keeps 'borrowing' from me, apparently with the intention to give it back. I never complain; it comes back smelling like her, sweet and warm.

  “Afraid not.” Oliver bites his lip. “I'm guessing you're the same, or you wouldn't be asking?”

  Penny smiles at him, tiredly. It's a smile that makes me want to bundle her in blankets until she sleeps. “See, this is why I love you lads,” she chuckles. “You're so efficient.”

  “You worried about him, lassie?”

  Penny only pauses for a second or two before shaking her head. “No,” she says. “Not really. He's buggered off on us like this so many times now, I imagine he'll be back sooner rather than later. He's taking the time he needs to cool off.”

  “Aye.” I'm trying not to focus on a single strand of blonde hair that keeps bouncing off of her lips, but eh, it's so hard. “He's an eejit, but he's a good boy. He's nae let us down yet.”

  Oliver nods, and Penny releases a heavy sigh.

  “All right,” she says, her voice suddenly serrated at the edge, “I'm going to allow myself my second and final drink of the evening. Don't wait up for me, boys.”

  With a bit of a hip-wiggle-dance, she whirls around to leave. I don’t bother hiding the fact that I’m ogling. Then, she finds an afterthought, and turns back to us.

  “Oh, before I forget.” Our captain stares at each of us, one at a time, the intensity in her gaze wavering nae even for a blink. “I need you lads to keep your ears to the ground, understand?”

  “Of course,” says Oliver brightly.

  “And,” she adds, and this time she makes a point of staring quite deliberately in my direction, “do so discreetly, please. I'm looking at you now, Dee. Do you feel me looking at you?”

  “Aye,” I answer, quirking an eyebrow.

  “Do you feel my eyes burning into your fucking skull, son?”

  “Aye…”

  “Good.” She nods. “Remember it. Whichever one of you blows our cover here is scrubbing the underside of the van after that fucking field we went through on the way down here. I want a nice smooth ride here, all right? No hiccups.”

  By the time she turns to leave again, she misses the wince my face twists into. Which, I'm nae gonna lie, I may have over-exaggerated for Oliver, purely for comedic value.

  8 Penny's A-Wandering

  No matter the party, I’m always guaranteed to be one of the last louts left standing.

  The quote an American band (whose music certainly wouldn't be approved by the British Sovereign Communications Commission for sale this side of the pond), I certainly don't mean to brag. It's in absolutely no correlation with my alcohol tolerance or lifelong insomnia. Nor my compulsion to ensure everyone else in the brigade is bedded down or at least comfortable for the night before I turn in myself.

  If I were to psychoanalyze it, I'm sure it would be more in line/keeping with a generalized anxiety complex. More specifically, a manic fear of losing anything which means something to me. I have a tendency to cherish these nights, these moments, these feelings. Cling to them with both hands, as if terrified they'll suddenly be snatched away and become nothing but a beloved memory.

  I suppose when you're still getting over waking up to a goodbye note from your father, it's not all that difficult to understand why.

  For a multitude of reasons, including the above, I'm still sprawled out next to the bonfire as it starts to very slowly die down. My mind is a-wandering and, as I lay listening-but-not-listening to another A
nomaly pick lazily at their guitar, I've no reason to stop it.

  I can't relax.

  I've not seen that silhouette, that dark ominous shadow, in my peripherals since we collected Juniper in Pocklington. But that hasn't kept me from searching. Every flash of movement, every unexplained likeness, jump-starts my adrenaline system, and for a fraction of a second I have a microscopic heart attack.

  I wish I could say something like oh, well, you see, I'm just always like this around Hallowe'en. But the truth is, I wouldn't know. This is would be the first we've had since our raid on a Sovereignty building went horribly awry, and I wound up spending almost four days in the company of a strange, secretive, somewhat sexual Anomaly who only ever introduced himself as 'Illiam'.

  Four days which, to me, barely felt longer than a few hours.

  Your time is yet to come.

  Vetrnætr. Otherwise known as Winternights, one of arguably three most important Old Norse festivals. The word came back to me several days after Illiam returned me to my brigade, who were as clueless to my whereabouts as I was, and I dove deep into some very private research.

  Typically, I like to involve Oliver in this sort of thing. As a captain, I'm a huge proponent of delegating to the most adequate and able team member for the task at hand. But this wasn't a typical brigade mission—this one was personal.

  My teeth graze my lower lip as my mind continues on its little wander, only semi-drunkenly. I have no doubts in my mind why we offered to assist with the convoy: it's what we do. Retaining our position as the biggest thorn in the Sovereignty's side isn't all about drama and rioting and explosively wild exploits. A great deal of it is humanitarian; that's a moral line all five of us agree on.

  At the back of my mind, though, there's another bubble of thought.

  Tomorrow is the first day of Vetrnætr, the first of four days. Considering this will be the same span of time I was missing last year, I'm open to any and all distractions, including the risk of death by Bashing Squad as we attempt to ferry families overseas from a spit of land a stone's throw from one of the Sovereignty's naval strongholds. Anything to avoid this mental wander lasting another four bloody days.