A Winter's Mercy, page 14
“Watch your damn Tarrish mouth,” Hark snapped. “You are talking to a superior officer and you will address me as sir.”
“Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Iggy replied, raising her hands innocently. Hark’s face reddened. Yeah, Macmiddan knew this man: a petty tyrant who’d never fit in at home. Never had respect so tried for power instead. He was itching to take it out on someone.
“This man talk for all you?” Macmiddan asked, glancing around the half dozen other soldiers. A couple of them appeared tough enough, but they all looked as uncertain as Grebe.
“Don’t address them,” Hark barked. “This is my operation. And –”
“And you wanna keep your voice down,” Macmiddan said. “Considering where we are.”
“Are you trying to give me orders?”
“Fuck it, go on then.” Macmiddan spread his arms. “You want a fight, first blow’s free. Make it count. And make it quick. We need to go.”
He kept his arms out, motionless, and red-faced Hark looked him up and down, almost trembling with rage. Looking foolish. He clenched a fist, considering it, readying himself.
“Cocky fucking Rawboy,” Hark snarled. To his men, he said, “If he tries anything –”
Macmiddan punched him in the gut. The idiot crumpled with a wheeze, the air knocked out of him, and knelt gasping as Macmiddan scanned the other soldiers.
“Anyone else think we got time to waste?” he asked.
They had their rifles but zero confidence, to a man. Not the best advance team, but not blindly loyal to their sergeant either.
“Alright.” He held a hand out to Hark. “Done?”
Hark looked into his face with wretched hate. This was a moment where a man could recognise his failings, take the hand and move on. Swallow the humility and grow. He chose the other option, slapping the hand away and spitting into the ground. Hark struggled unsteadily up, almost falling over and snapping at a soldier who moved to help him. He glared furiously at Macmiddan but didn’t make another move. He’d probably try and stab him in the back later.
“All good?” Macmiddan asked Iggy, and she nodded, face alight with wonder at his punch. “So how are we doing it?”
“There’s a timer good for an hour. But we should probably lay a few surprises on the northern and western paths before committing to that – what do you think?”
A call came through the trees and the group collectively turned towards it.
Bluefern’s men shuffled together protectively, guns rattling, as Macmiddan tried to follow the piercing cry to its source. West or north? It was growing, like earlier, into a distant mess of screeches and screams. Hard to believe that was anything civilised.
“Fuck’s sake, look what you’ve done,” Hark said, no logic in it, wrestling to ready his rifle but tangling the strap in his haste. “Set the timer – we’ll go back the way we came.”
“That’ll draw the bastards after us,” Macmiddan warned.
“If they’re not already coming! Wait to find out and we’re screwed.” Hark paused as the sounds drew closer. It only got harder to tell where they were coming from. Whooping, sinister, malevolent. Pounding feet – a mounted approach. “Second thoughts, we need a trigger. Can’t risk them disarming this.”
Macmiddan considered the three paths out of the clearing. West or north, if not back the way they’d come . . . which was most likely to bring the Stranded? Either way, objectionable as the man was, Hark had a point. He asked Iggy, “How much cable have you got?”
“As much as you need,” she said, lifting a considerable spool.
“We retreat, run it back after us,” Hark said. “We’ve got more wire – can piggy-back a switch as far as possible before setting it off.” It wasn’t a question, but he did offer a deferring look to Macmiddan. The screams were getting too close to risk anything else.
“Okay, okay,” Iggy said, racing back to the rocks and attaching her wire and a trigger box. She squeaked as a particularly fierce shriek split the trees – then she tied things off and skipped back to Macmiddan, unravelling wire away from the rocks. She paused. “I should check all the connections, make sure it’s –”
“No time. Go, the lot of you – I have the rear,” Macmiddan said, grabbing the trigger box from her hands, the cable from the other. “Run.”
“But –”
“Move!” Hark all but shouted and Macmiddan cringed. Hard to tell if the Stranded’s mad warbling answered his call, but it sounded like there was a shift. The men ran, back along the tight path they’d come by, tripping over roots and making frightened sounds as their guns hit branches and the hunters got closer. Macmiddan rushed behind them, unravelling the cable from the trigger box, careful to lay it out but barely slowing. Grebe jogged at his side, throwing looks behind them with his rifle up to defend the rear. Absolutely terrified.
“Push on lad,” Macmiddan said. “Keep the –”
There was a gunshot ahead and the soldiers started shouting. Macmiddan froze, unable to see far up the winding path, only the shapes of the nearest couple of men scrambling. More gunfire and the sounds of branches snapping, a creature’s snarl.
“Contact!” Hark roared, all hope of stealth gone. “Open fire!”
The hunters’ screams were still far away – they should’ve had more time. Macmiddan spun back towards the sound.
A shape was blocking the path, twenty metres away, almost black in the shadow of the trees, angular, unreal. A barely humanoid rider on a fearsome dog, hunched as it paused from stalking closer. They’d approached silently. Surrounded them.
He should’ve known. As he locked onto the horrific silhouette ahead, the sounds of battle escalated. The soldiers were screaming. Iggy shrieked and Grebe shouted in panic. More gunshots, animal snarls. Hark’s yell was cut off with a brutal squelch.
Should’ve known better. The very basics of light-feet tactics. A big noise was great for distracting your enemy.
The Stranded rider before him shuddered with intention, readying to pounce as Macmiddan stared it down with only the trigger box in hand, his gun on his back. Only one trick available. As the bandit dog sprang forward, kicking through the dirt, he flipped the trigger, and the explosion tore the woodland apart.
15
Is it strange, and wrong, Betan, that I merely want to make art now. I imagine myself painting, or making music, or writing. In idle hours here, I have penned poems and drawn sketches. I know not their quality, but feel inspired to escape all this, any way I can. Anything that might create rather than destroy. That, I fear, is where glory lies, not in the culling of our fellow man.
Extract from the Letters of Corporal T. Sander, Balnia, 719
On his return trip to Haven, Pitt was greeted with the same deferential salutes and politeness from the guards, but with heightened nerves, Sergeant Kether clearly feared he would bring more unpleasant orders. He told them not to worry, they were just here for a walk this time, enjoying the fresh air, and the man slumped with relief.
Chiara had already continued towards the clock tower, and he tried not to watch. He’d wondered the whole way here if he’d see a shift in her again, and tried to make his peace with it. Let her go, see what happens. To Kether, he asked, “Was it bad? Meeting with the Stranded?”
“Ha!” Kether responded brightly. “I expect it would be. We didn’t meet them directly – I left orders on the mile-marker back at the main road. I haven’t heard them come this way since, so it may be they’ve not even seen it yet, or maybe it’s duly noted. I had an earful from Captain Brender though, sir – apparently some confusion in the orders.”
“Ah. Yes, things are so busy in town not everything is being clearly communicated. He, uh, didn’t rescind the orders?”
Kether gave him a lingering look, surely aware by now Pitt had acted on his own (or rather Chiara’s) initiative. He let the pretence lie there between them, though, and said, “No, sir. I expect he appreciated the confusion of the situation himself.”
And if the captain was anything like these men stationed here, he would be secretly happy the Stranded were pushed away, whatever he had to say to maintain an appearance of command.
“Okay. Well, that should be the last of it.”
The soldier nodded hopefully. It would be the last orders they got from him, anyway, after Terrifold’s scolding, even if this had worked out. No, he was just here to enjoy the break, as instructed. But he saw Chiara hadn’t gone into the tower alone as before, and was waiting by the door, expectantly. He gave her an uncertain look and she beckoned with a hand.
“Are you coming or not?”
With a farewell to Kethers, Pitt rushed around the barricades to join her, inwardly cursing himself for so quickly jumping at her command but with a little thrill that this wouldn’t be like last time.
She opened the door and led him into a cluttered office space, and on to a set of steep stairs. As they climbed she said, “He’s a little particular, our Erol, but I think you’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will,” Pitt said.
He shouldn’t be here, technically, he knew – hiking out of town with a girl, getting to meet her family, was the opposite of the nature-fuelled meditation Terrifold had in mind. But it was worth it for the view of Chiara climbing the stairs alone.
They reached the top, Pitt somehow more out of breath than her, and she twisted back, catching him looking at the last moment. He smiled sheepishly, and was rewarded with her sly smirk. As she went into the tower’s loft, did she maybe swing her hips a little more deliberately, just for him? That stole what little breath he had left. But a distraction came from the space they entered: the room was a world apart from the administrative office below, with every inch of the tight space covered by painted canvas panels, stacked against each other, hanging from beams, alive with vibrant landscapes. Pitt stared open-mouthed as he took it in – there were common themes of trees and lakes, cloudy skies, evoking the Harmonial area, but all rendered in unnatural colours. Lively, with dashes of vivid pink or bright orange, highlights in white and yellow. As if the artist was revealing an energy only he could see.
“Pitt,” Chiara said, gently. “This is my brother, Erol. Erol, this is Pitt – remember I told you about him?”
Pitt saw they weren’t alone in this incredible gallery. In a corner of easels and scattered painting equipment hunched a man in a robe-like smock, stained all over like a butcher. He was big, blocky, and would have appeared fearsome in the half-light, if not for the paintings and Chiara’s smiling presence. He glowered darkly and spoke Lomish in a deep rumble.
“That’s right,” Chiara replied. “Now come on, you can manage Drail for our guest.”
“Welcome,” Erol huffed, sitting up straighter, appearing even bigger. His paintbrush appeared tiny in his large mitt. “Thank you. It has been easier without the noise.”
“My pleasure,” Pitt said. “Wouldn’t want our troops disrupting this work. It’s wonderful.” He nodded to a bright green image of a wall of trees wound with red vines, birds overhead.
“Yes,” Erol agreed. “Would you like tea?” His low voice fit his ogreish appearance but he spoke Drail well. More eloquently than Pitt.
“I’d love some.”
They settled on stools while Erol delicately produced a set of paint-splattered mugs and warmed the tea over a small fireplace. Pitt watched him with wonder, such a big man but so graceful. He didn’t say much, nor look at Pitt, but made agreeable noises as Chiara explained that his work was in growing demand, and had been hung in cities as far apart as Tyne, Pace and Voralla. There were plans for an exhibition in Farne’s Sunset City, at one of Boldarow’s most exclusive galleries, but Chiara’s mood got a little darker as she added that the war had got in the way. That gallery might not exist anymore, with Sunset City potentially in ruins.
“But we keep on, don’t we?” she said, patting Erol’s leg, and the big man nodded. “By the time the war’s done, he’ll have quite the collection to tour. And without Sober Sound’s usual tourist trade, the war’s given Erol a lot more time to himself. Away from our father . . .”
Pitt didn’t have to ask to know that Rotus didn’t approve of this. Most likely, Erol was destined for a place in the family businesses of real estate and hospitality, to which he plainly wasn’t suited.
“So there’s one benefit to the fighting, at least.” Chiara smiled sadly. It was the most raw emotion Pitt had seen from her yet: vulnerable, dearly caring for her brother.
“And friends,” Erol murmured. “Brought friends, too.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Chiara looked at Pitt. He smiled, but she explained, “Erol gets on well with the soldiers. They join him for tea up here, playing cards and keeping a lookout. They’re that much simpler, and kinder, than the sorts of friends Father tries to impose on us.”
“Fun,” Erol said. “They enjoy life.”
Pitt found himself warming in Chiara’s gaze, aware that she might knowingly think the same of him. He said, “So how else do you enjoy life up here, other than through painting?”
Erol met his eye properly for the first time, with the same slyness as Chaira. Quiet and gentle as he seemed, he was not slow, Pitt sensed. Erol said, “Have you tried Lomian rock vodka?”
It was getting dark as they staggered up the path to Sober Sound, and Pitt slurred his words as he spoke. He did not care that he was bumping into Chiara, nor that he had lost so many hands of cards to Erol and the soldiers who had joined them in the loft. There was too much laughter and lightness. He didn’t know what he was saying to Chiara on their return walk, but she was laughing. Possibly something to do with the contrasts between Lomian rock vodka and Necostrian ice wine, and the happy coincidence of him encountering two such drinks in one day. That was a recurring point for him, as Chiara responded drily, “You might have mentioned it.”
She was careful to hush him as they got within hearing distance of the town, a finger on his lips, whispering they needed to part ways. It was too risky to continue together, when they were both likely to draw attention. He protested, but agreed, and they kissed. It might have lasted an hour, he wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t long enough. She broke away, breathing heavily, and promised, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”
Then she was gone and Pitt was focusing hard on keeping himself upright, winding through the little alleys to the inn. Or should he go to the town hall, get some food? His merriment could continue there, accepted, normal. All of this, he realised, a welcome distraction from the magic, and the perhaps too-close attentions of Terrifold, which he quite resolutely was not wanting to unpack. He turned towards the hall, realising that he needed to relieve himself, too. But as he stepped through the dark, a hand up to support himself against a building, he was hit hard from the side.
His thought he’d caught his ankle, tripped, but as his shoulder smacked the wall, he was pulled forcibly around and struck again, in his chest, pinned as cold metal touched his neck. Pressed in. He looked into the narrow eyes of a man with only his crinkled brow visible, cloth covering his mouth and the rest of his head. Pitt went stiff, mind slow – had this man caught him as he tripped?
“Hear me, mage,” the man said, roughly, and gave him a shake, knocking his head into the wall. That brought the reality into sharp focus, and Pitt’s pulse spiked. He tried to resist at last, but his attacker pressed the knife in harder. Knife! Pitt felt it nick his throat. “Stay still, you don’t want to get gutted.”
“I’m still,” Pitt insisted. “What do you want, money –”
“Want you to stay away. Your filthy Drail hands don’t belong on our girls.” Another harsh shake, banging Pitt’s head again. “Definitely don’t belong on that girl. Go near her again and I’ll fucking skin you, understand? Nod.”
Pitt nodded, throat tense against the knife.
“We don’t want you here, Drail,” the man spat. “Plenty of us waiting for an excuse . . .” His eyes twitched, rapidly, like he was considering gutting Pitt anyway. He stepped back, releasing the knife. “You understand. You stay safe.”
Pitt nodded again, and the man turned to stride into the shadows. His heavy footfalls continued rapidly away, and Pitt trembled with the will to chase after him. Use his power, call for help, run to Terrifold. He was a mage of the Drail army, destined for great things. He was from the mean streets of Arrow – he’d been in a few scrapes. But by the time the thoughts had swept through him, the man was long gone and he realised he was too exhausted, afraid, and ashamed. He wouldn’t dare explain what had happened to the soldiers, let alone to Terrifold. Shaking, he stepped away from the wall, all hint of inebriation gone.
Just needed to get home.
16
In the blink of an eye
The world ends
With the flash of a gun
All that could have been
Is done.
“Goodbye Markon”, The Collected War Poems, Trekallen, 723
For an abandoned village in the middle of a monster-patrolled front-line woods, Haven was surprisingly intact. It wasn’t untouched by war, with a scattering of barbed wire, sandbags and miscellaneous crates, as well as a broken wagon painted Drail green and at least one burnt-out building that Wish could see, but past those details it could as easily have been a few miles behind the line than on it. There was a cluster of low stone huts with only one slightly larger central building and a clock tower. The windows had glass in them and only a couple of buildings had been boarded up. The rest looked like they were patiently waiting for this rabble to move on through.
The soldiers, however, were set to stay. They had a cosy camp in the centre, where there was a bit of space below the clock tower – a three-sided barricade with a fire burning in a barrel and a machine-gun mounted at the front. A sheet hung on a metal frame to keep out the rain, with some hints of foliage for camouflage, bless them. Yet they clearly weren’t expecting company, as they sat chatting over hot drinks, not watching the road. Three men. Another was ambling between the buildings, stretching his legs and inattentive – bored, from the way he hung his head.
