Low Town (11 page)

I turned to Saavedra, our point man since a stray artillery shell had taken off the top of poor Donnely’s skull. His dark eyes and the stern set of his face betrayed his Asher ancestry, though why he had signed up as a member of our mixed unit instead of with the regiments of his own people none of us could say. Saavedra refused to discuss it, or much else for that matter, and the men of the First Capital Infantry were not the sort to look closely at a man’s papers, as long as he took his turn over the top. Despite his exile among us heathens, Saavedra hewed close to the standards of his race, taciturn and unreadable, the best card player in the regiment and a terror with a short sword besides. He’d have enough faceblack stashed somewhere to darken
his own features, but sure as the single god of his people was a grim one, he wouldn’t have enough for two.

“Get the rest of them ready. I’m to see the major.” Saavedra nodded, silent as usual. I headed back toward the center of camp.

Our major, Cirellus Grenwald, was a fool and a coward but not an outright lunatic, and that alone placed him distinctly in the top half of the officer corps. If his primary talent consisted of being born at the top of a ladder, it was something at least that he’d yet to fall from it. He was talking to a man in a leather coat with silver trim, whom I took for a civilian at first glance.

The major offered me an ingenuous smile that, more than any actual competence, had hastened his ascent through the ranks. “Lieutenant, I was just telling Third Sorcerer Adelweid here about you. Head of the fiercest platoon in the division. He’ll provide an impregnable defense for your … undertaking.”

Sorcerer Adelweid was pale faced, thin but with a wormy film of excess flesh. He had found the time to slip his raven black, shoulder-length hair into a jeweled clasp, an adornment which, along with his gilded belt buckle and silver cuff links, seemed singularly inappropriate to the situation at hand. I didn’t like him, and I liked less the discovery that my mission involved his protection. The Crane aside, I hated sorcerers—everyone in the force did and not just because they were showy and whiny and got their requisitions for arcane items filled in a hot minute while we scavenged for boot leather and millet. No, every grunt in the force hated sorcerers because, to a man and with vituperate language, each could tell of losing comrades when some spell-slinger got careless directing battle hexes and annihilated half a unit in a spray of blood and bone. The brass thought them great fun, of course, certain that each new scheme they proposed would be the secret weapon that would win us the war.

But it wouldn’t do to let this animus play across my face. I saluted
the man crisply, an obeisance he returned apathetically and without comment. Major Grenwald continued, “Welcome to Operation Ingress, Lieutenant. Your orders are as follows. You and your men are to take Sorcerer Adelweid four hundred yards into no-man’s-land, halting at a place of his choosing, at which point the sorcerer will perform a working. You are to detail one man to protect him, then you and the remainder are to travel another two hundred yards toward Dren lines, where you will place this talisman”—he handed me a small black jewel—“on an overlook within sight of the enemy defenses. You are to hold that position until Sorcerer Adelweid has completed his part of the mission.”

Adding up the distances I came to the unfortunate sum of six hundred yards, closer to the Dren’s territory than to ours and well within the range of even short-distance patrols. Nor did it escape my notice that Grenwald had offered no estimate as to how long Adelweid would need to complete his task. Was it ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? For that matter, why did we all assume this slippery piece of black glass would even work? From what I had seen of the Art, it was just as likely to blow up in my hands.

I didn’t imagine I’d get answers, even if I was foolish enough to ask the questions. Instead, I snapped a hand at Grenwald, praying it wouldn’t be the last time I’d salute the vainglorious motherfucker, then turned to Adelweid. “Sir, our unit is grouped at the front trench. If you’ll follow me.”

He nodded vaguely toward the major, then fell in line behind me without comment. I took the opportunity to make one. “Sir, now might be a good time to remove any reflective gear you have. That hair clasp in particular will give away our position to any Dren sniper we run into.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Lieutenant, but my garments will remain as they are.” His voice was every drop as oily as I expected, and
he rubbed at the gleaming bangle possessively. “Our mission would be quite impossible to complete without it. Besides, I have no wish to return to camp victorious, only to discover that someone has made off with the cuff links given to me by the head of the Order of the Twisted Oak.”

Better than not coming back at all, I thought, and better than sacrificing me and my men to your bloated sense of vanity. Although he was right: someone would have stolen them.

By the time we reached the outskirts of camp, the men were in position, weapons at the ready, armor pulled tight. The six of us stood in a circle and I repeated our orders. It was clear they weren’t happy, not with the job and not with Adelweid, but they were professionals and kept quiet. When I was finished, I ordered a last equipment check and then we were up the ladders and alone in the wasteland between our camp and the Dren.

“From here on out, full light and noise restrictions are in effect.” I nodded to Saavedra, his face predictably soot colored. He shifted into a practiced stalk and fifteen seconds later I could barely make him out. Carolinus fell in behind him, and I followed with Adelweid a few steps ahead of me.

Behind me was our crossbowman, Milligan, a bright, decent-natured Tarasaihgn who could prick the Queen’s face on an ochre coin at a hundred paces. I wasn’t sure what good he would do us—it was pretty dark to be sending off bolts. He was calm in a melee at least, nothing special but steady and reliable.

Taking rear was Cilliers, a dour-faced Vaalan giant who smiled little and spoke less. He was about the only man in the company who hadn’t switched exclusively to a trench blade, still carrying a double-edged flamberge across his back, the weapon passed down from father to son since before his ancestors had sworn fealty to the Rigun Throne. His frame was too broad to make him much use for covert
operations, but we’d be happy to have his sword if we needed to make a stand on open ground.

Years of fighting had turned the once lush landscape into a barren desert. Bombardments, artillery and magical, had destroyed most of the vegetation and all fauna of the non-rodent variety. Even the topography had been altered, explosives leveling hills and thrusting up piles of debris to replace them. Beyond any aesthetic concern, the devastation meant there was little cover to be found. Without faceblack, on a moonlit night we were easy prey for any patrol that came within fifty yards.

We needed to move quick and we needed to move quiet. Unsurprisingly, Adelweid was having difficulty with both of these, his gait more appropriate to a morning stroll than our clandestine mission. I winced every time the light caught on his silver and noticed Milligan doing the same. If one of us got bled because this idiot wouldn’t take his jewelry off, I didn’t think I could stop my men from friendly-firing him. I didn’t think I’d try.

After a quarter mile I leaned in close to Adelweid and whispered, “Four hundred yards. Let us know where to set up.”

He pointed to a low hill and responded in a voice that did little to maintain our stealth. “That will do nicely. Take me there, then deploy the talisman.”

I signaled to Saavedra, and we swung our line toward the mound. I’ll give this much for Adelweid, the bastard knew his craft. No sooner had we reached the top than he pulled a pack of arcane materials out of his bag and began drawing intricate symbols into the dirt with a short branch of black oak. His movements were sharp and natural, and I knew enough of the Art to appreciate that it wasn’t such an easy thing to draw a pentacle in the pitch-black, not when a mistake meant opening yourself up to forces that would fry your brain. In the midst of his work he turned to me. “Continue the mission, Lieutenant. I’ll take care of my end.”

“Private Carolinus—you’re on guard. If we aren’t back in three quarters of an hour, take the sorcerer and return to base.” Carolinus drew his trench blade and saluted. Saavedra went back to point, and the four of us who remained pushed onward into Dren territory.

Two hundred yards and we crested a small incline, its geometry too sharp to be anything but the result of an artillery shell. In the distance I could see the first line of the enemy trenches and the lights of their campfires beyond. Signaling to the men to form on me, I pulled the talisman from a pouch on my armor and dropped it in the dirt, feeling a bit foolish as I did so.

“That’s it?” whispered Milligan. “Just stand on a hill and leave a pebble in the middle of it?”

“Private, shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.” Milligan’s nerves were understandable—this was the part of the mission I had liked least, and I hadn’t been particularly crazy about any of it. On top of this ridge we were easy targets for any Dren patrol that wandered by, and they were a lot closer to reinforcements than we were.

In the dark, in those circumstances, every shadow hides a sniper and every glint of light reflects off steel, so I wasn’t certain I saw anything until Milligan signaled down the line. We grabbed dust, hunkering beneath what little cover we could find. Twenty yards out from the base of our hill one of them noticed us and let out a cry of warning and I knew we were fucked.

Milligan sent off a bolt at the front man, but it went spinning off into the night, and then they were sprinting up the dune and we preparing to meet their charge. Saavedra took the first one and I took the second, and after that it was hard to concentrate on the general arc of the battle, my attention occupied by the particulars.

Mine was young, barely old enough to pleasure a woman, and I winced at his lack of skill. Five years of killing anyone in a gray uniform had overridden any natural aversion toward murdering a virtual child, and my only thought was to finish him quickly. A feint to his
side and a counter of his awkward defense and he was down, blood spurting from a killing strike through his abdomen.

It was a good thing I dropped him because it wasn’t going all our way. Cilliers was showing one of the enemy the reason he had never abandoned his ancestral weapon, and Saavedra was his usual self, holding down a pair of Dren with a display of coldly efficient sword work. But Milligan was on his last legs, a squat Dren with a trench blade in one hand and a hatchet in the other steadily pushing him back toward the slope of the hill. I unstrapped a throwing knife and sent it sailing into the back of Milligan’s attacker, hoping it would be enough to even the odds. I didn’t have time to do more, as one of the men facing Saavedra disengaged and came toward me. I hefted my trench blade and drew the battle club that was swinging from my belt.

This one was better, good in fact, and I didn’t need to see the scar that separated his nose into two uneven masses of flesh to place him as a veteran of our conflict. He understood how to kill with a short blade, wary circling interrupted by the rapid exchange of blows, off hand poised to settle the business firmly. But this wasn’t my first tumble either, and my own weapon stayed close on his, and the spiked rod in my left hand waited for an opening.

It came when he overextended trying for a thrust, and I lashed my club against his wrist. He let out an angry scream but didn’t drop his sword. This fucker was tough as pig iron, but his stoicism, while impressive, wasn’t sufficient to save his life. His hand crippled, he couldn’t maintain our pace and a half minute later he was down from a pair of fatal wounds.

For a moment I thought we might even pull it off, until I heard the twang of a bowstring and watched Cilliers’s massive frame topple backward, a bolt feather deep in his breast. Now that it was too late, I spotted the assassin cresting the top of the ridge, reloading his crossbow, while his partner, a hulking Dren nearly Adolphus’s
size, flanked him with a wicked-looking spiked hammer. Dropping my mace I took a running start and dove into the bowman, knocking the weapon from his grip and sending the two of us hurtling down the embankment. We struggled as we fell, but by the time we stopped rolling I was on top, and I drove the pommel of my trench blade against his skull, till his hold on me slackened and I was able to reverse my grip and pull the edge sharp across his throat.

I caught my breath, then sprinted back up the hill. When I reached the summit, Saavedra was the only one of us still standing, and barely at that. The Dren giant had him on the outs, the Asher’s intricate style a poor match for the savagery of his opponent. Saavedra’s defenses did, however, provide sufficient distraction for me to close in and hamstring the ogre, nor did my comrade stutter when I provided him an opening, dispatching our remaining enemy with a quick thrust beneath his chin.

The two of us stood staring at each other, then Saavedra slumped to the ground and I realized he had been tagged, a pool of blood seeping through his leather armor. Flinty bastard hadn’t shown it until the combat was over. “How bad is it?” I asked.

“Bad,” he responded, with the same unreadable demeanor that had won him half the unit’s wages. I gingerly removed his armor. He winced but didn’t speak.

Saavedra was right—it was bad. The spiked end of the war hammer had penetrated his intestines. He had a chance if I could get him back to camp. I settled him up against an incline and checked on the rest of my men.

Dead—no surprises. That bolt had done for Cilliers, an inglorious end for such a valiant soldier. I wanted to bring his flamberge back to base, try and get it to his family somehow—he would have liked that, but it was heavy and I would already be half carrying Saavedra.

Milligan’s head had been caved in while I was dealing with the
enemy bowman. He was never more than average close in. I was glad at least that we had taken care of the bastard with the hammer. I had always liked the friendly little runt. I had always liked both of them, truth be told.