A Winter's Mercy, page 6
“That’s where you come in,” Crash said. “They’re your problem. The mage is his.”
Wish glowered, because actually Gaussica had killed trolls so it’d be best if they were both his problem. This, at least, she managed to keep to herself.
“We’ve been assured you’re well-qualified for the task,” Sergeant Pillson added, a little more polite than the other two. “Of all the scout platoons, Command said you had the best experience in these environments, against such . . . creatures.”
Wish took in a big, unhappy breath. She couldn’t exactly deny it. The Stranded were tribal warriors who sat somewhere between the reclusive, hostile communities of the Mire and the inhumanly nasty monsters of Low Slane. But she didn’t want to repeat past successes. Mostly because she knew there was a great deal of luck and a greater deal of heartbreak involved in the horrors she’d survived so far. She said, “I guess that’s still not everything, then. What exactly is this environment we’re supposed to be comfortable in?”
“And what’s his name?” Gaussica spoke at last. It made the air heavier somehow, his voice, his eyes sharp, in contrast to the quiet, uncertain man of before. He was already imagining duelling a powerful mage, Wish could see it.
“Terrifold,” Bluefern said. “Dalton Terrifold of the Drail 15th Division. He’s –”
“One of the strongest they’ve got,” Gaussica interrupted, getting a look of disdain from the major. Unbothered, the Azirian added, “You definitely need my help.”
6
Though the popular image of the front line is one of systems of trenches, it was also sporadically divided by urban centres, including entire towns where civilians refused to evacuate and attempted to continue life as normal. Many of these attempts to ignore the war ended in tragedy, but some, miraculously, survived untouched.
The Great Ebb and Flow: Reflections on Modern Trench Warfare, Sommer, p. 326
The army were starting to appear in earnest, first with the arrival of finely turned out infantry and then with truckloads of munitions, and then a group of stiffly important officers. Pitt watched them taking over the picturesque town, marvelling at how many people it could accommodate. How much weaponry they could pack in the small stock houses. This drawn-out preparation promised a decisive strike, and his heart swelled to be a part of it.
It helped that he was making progress with Terrifold’s lessons, despite a few hesitant starts. The principles behind parsing were simple, really, but putting them into practice took work. It was a question of shedding everything Pitt had learnt before: he had been raised with an understanding that witlacing was made possible when you pushed hard to meet a need. He sealed pipes by willing spaces to close. Wrong, Terrifold said, again and again, when Pitt attempted to raise a shield. The arch mage at one moment lost his patience: “Stop trying to think it into happening. Thought is what’s getting in the way.”
But if he wasn’t supposed to think, what should he do?
The question frustrated Pitt as they progressed, making him think more, and Terrifold had to take frequent breaks or risk losing his cool. He wasn’t a natural teacher, but he was always apologetic when he returned. And besides, the demands of increasingly unhappy townsfolk and newly arriving soldiers provided plenty of distraction. Pitt was able to get a little further with his efforts when the mage wasn’t around. He could produce a shield, by now, even if it would barely cover a person, let alone half a town.
Being less available throughout the day, Terrifold invited Pitt to talk over dinner with extended conversations about where he came from, what he enjoyed, music . . . anything but witlacing. Pitt couldn’t help feeling there was a manipulation in that, deliberately done to distract him, and despite himself it added more pressure knowing Terrifold was trying to clear his mind. Still, he enjoyed these fine wines and meats, a class above anything back home, in another world to the filth most soldiers enjoyed on the front. The company wasn’t bad, either, with Terrifold offering gentle smiles and smoothly-voiced stories of his own. Kind eyes. He must’ve been a real charmer when he was younger, Pitt imagined, though he also detected a sadness there, too – weary, perhaps, from a life of heightened responsibility.
Terrifold’s attitude improved as they better established themselves in town, with windows shored up and more uniforms than civilians visible. Rotus Axefell became a less frequent visitor as he had other officers to harangue, and alongside the military adornments Sober Sound was starting to look more festive for the coming holiday. Pitt watched from his loft-space perch in the fish barn, with its open front overlooking the town, as the locals hung colourful vines and glittering paper from their windows and balconies, and an enormous Relight tree was placed in the town square, slowly getting decorated. The soldiers helped out, singing and drinking like this was a holiday. But this peaceful town could change everything. A breakthrough here and the Drail could route the enemy, push back the Comity, end this damn war. The best Relight present anyone could ask for, achievable before the snow thawed.
Pitt was drawn from his reflections on this particular cold morning, though, as cheerful voices rose from the barn floor behind him. The men stacking cases of shells were unmistakably hooting to celebrate a woman’s presence, and he twisted around to see for himself. Civilians shouldn’t be coming in here, but there were some lovely young ladies in town, and damned if he was going to miss an opportunity to –
He yelped and fell on his rear as a face appeared coming up his ladder, just as he was about to lean over it. She didn’t pause, but smiled at his reaction as she climbed the rest of the way into his nook. Pitt hurried to dust himself off and tidy out his coat, trying to stand but tripping again, and there he found himself cringing, on his knees, looking up as the prettiest and most inaccessible girl in town tutted.
“No, by all means, stay there,” Chiara Axefell said, a hand on her cocked hip. “I like a man at my feet.”
Pitt sat on his haunches, smiling uncomfortably. The mayor’s daughter was a force of her own, flirty, fierce and a raven-dark beauty. She stood in leather trousers, heavily strapped boots, a frilled white shirt that showed off her cleavage, and a glistening thick sable coat. Her black hair flowed in waves over her shoulders. He’d enjoyed seeing her from afar, and hearing her silky Lomian accent – a fairy-tale beauty, fitting to this setting – but he’d also seen the spark of fire in her eyes and knew she’d chewed out about as many people as her father. A familiar feeling set in, which he hadn’t got to enjoy since leaving the Arrow: he really shouldn’t humour this woman, and was likely to get in trouble not just with Terrifold and the army, but on a personal level. Yet he knew just looking into her eyes, drinking up her sly smile, that he would.
“If you’re looking for Dalton,” he started carefully, “he doesn’t come up here.”
“Oh I know that,” Chiara said, crouching and resting her elbows on her spread knees. “It’s you I want today.”
Pitt swallowed. He was no stranger to the attention of beautiful women, but it always gave him a thrill. His voice peaked a little as he tried to keep cool. “Really. What would you want with me?”
“I require an escort,” she said, leaning closer. Deliberately lowering her chest, so he had to strain not to stare. Warmth stirred in Pitt, down low. “To Haven. And you are it.” She poked him in the chest and he almost fell over again, but recovered with a laugh and finally stood. She rose with him, close enough that their breath mingled.
“Are you going to tell me why, or . . .”
She smiled and he soaked it up. This was a game, of course. She knew the effect she had on all men and revelled in it. He didn’t mind if she intended to use him; perhaps this was the distraction he needed to unlock the next step of parsing. He winced even as he thought that, though, sure he’d jinxed the process.
That made Chiara frown. “Something wrong?”
“Oh no, absolutely not. A walk is just what I need. Let’s go.” Pitt whipped up his great coat and swung it on, gesturing for her to lead the way. She gave him another sly look, considering this had been too easy, why hadn’t he resisted or asked for details – but she went ahead of him. As they climbed down the ladder, he enjoyed the jealous looks and hushed comments of the soldiers below. Leaving the fish barn, pausing only briefly for Chiara to take a basket she’d left below, Pitt scanned the road, hoping not to see Terrifold or her father, both equally likely to ruin this. Neither were visible, but he enjoyed more lingering looks from lowly soldiers watching Chiara pass.
“It’s a long way, perhaps you’d like to take some supplies?” she said, without slowing.
“I trust you know what you’re doing,” Pitt replied, preferring to get out of the open.
“Good choice. There will be refreshments when we get there. This way.” They slid between houses to reach the western path out of town, a walking route that hugged the shore briefly before passing into the cover of the trees. When they were away from prying eyes, leaving Sober Sound behind, Chiara pulled her coat tighter and said, imperiously, “You may speak now.”
Pitt laughed. “Thank you, Your Highness. It’s an honour to serve the town’s royalty.”
She looked at him sidelong, the playfulness in her eyes delicious. “You’re not going to ask why we’re going to Haven? Or why you are coming with me?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Pitt shrugged, rather than show concern, and that got an adorable little fold of her brow. “Like I said, I trust you have your reasons.”
“You know me, do you?” she said.
“I’ve met your father, so yeah, I have some idea of what you might be capable of.”
That got a wry smile. She held out another moment before giving in and explaining herself. “You won’t have met my brother. He is a very gifted but somewhat troubled soul. That’s who we’re going to see. He couldn’t stand this busyness in town, so he is one of the few left in Haven.”
“It’s not so safe out there,” Pitt commented, regretting at once how obvious it sounded.
“Please,” Chiara scoffed. “You have men stationed there and you have those wretched nevolk prowling about. Haven is perfectly peaceful. Or at least it will be.”
Now Pitt saw she had a clear purpose for this visit. Not just a game. “Miss Axefell, you should know, I have a pretty specific and limited position in –”
“You’re the right hand of Dalton Terrifold. The Drail will do what you tell them.”
He let that lie for a moment as they continued. It was possible, he supposed, though not something he’d tested. Everyone looked at him differently here. He had respect. But . . . “What is it you want me to do?”
“Tell your men that the nevolk are to stay away. Far away. They are not needed here and they’re causing my brother a great deal of distress.”
“The nevolk,” Pitt echoed, not liking the mere mention of their wilder allies. He hadn’t seen them, but he knew the Stranded were out there in the woods. They kept well clear of Sober Sound, but evidently not Haven. He slowed down, considering that the price of this woman’s company might be too high after all. “I’ve got no desire to deal with the Stranded.”
“You won’t have to,” Chiara said. “Just instruct the sergeant in Haven. You can do that for me, can’t you?” She offered her smile again and he had to smile back. He was tempted to ask what he’d get in return, but she lifted her free hand to brush his shoulder and said, in a sultry tone, “Now that’s settled, shall we talk of more pleasant things? Where are you from, Pitt Sonland? And where are you going?”
His load lightened at the sound of his name on her lips, known without him giving it to her. He took a breath as she walked on with the sway of her hips. It was a bright day, pleasant, and he appreciated that this hike through these woods was another luxury ordinarily enjoyed by only the most fortunate. Though the trees were thorny and tangled, the Harmonial Woods were a marvel in themselves. And he was here in them with the finest company.
He told her freely, unashamed, of his upbringing. She delighted in his account of the Arrow streets – where he joked that they stole apples from street carts and ran from lawmen. Was it true, she asked, that the walls of the houses were blackened by more chimneys than a man could count? He described the winding streets of the Metal Farm district, the walkways and machinery, and she curled her nose with disbelief. She laughed with shock as he described travelling between buildings using rusted girders four storeys or more above the ground. Her attention lit a warmer fire in him than Terrifold’s studious nature ever did.
Somehow two hours flew by, the walking easy, hopping over rocks, enjoying views through the trees to the lake. They came to Haven, the evacuated village in the woods, and Pitt was in a breezy mood as he was introduced to Sergeant Kether and his small group of watchmen. The sergeant was young and smiley, and Pitt noted how his and the other men’s brief concern for Chiara’s arrival evaporated as they attempted to please her. One man offered her a seat, another a coffee, and Kether quickly enquired about her day, but she brushed them all off to say, “I’m here only in escort to Mage Sonland, Sergeant. It’s he who needs to speak to you.”
Pitt watched her carefully, more impressed than put out at how easily she twisted the situation. He said, “Indeed. Sergeant Kether, I’d like to ask –” He paused, cleared his throat, Chiara’s eyes warning him hesitance was not becoming of an officer. “That is, I have orders to relay. You have open communication channels with the nevolk?”
Kether’s cheer disappeared, he and his squad collectively paling. “You could call it that, sir. They occasionally come to requisition supplies. Truth be told, our actual contact is limited.”
“Well, I’d like it to be even more limited,” Pitt said. “Can you inform their leader that as of now, they are to stay away from Haven and the main road? Their watch is to cover only the western side of the Haven Woods.”
Kether’s face grew a little paler, mouth down-turned. “You want me to give orders to the Stranded directly, sir?”
“You’re not issuing them, only relaying them. Is that a problem?”
The sergeant and his men shifted nervously. If he was looking for an excuse, he failed to find one and shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve no love for the thought of talking with them, but it’s a command we’ll be happy to share. Certainly be easier on our nerves if they keep their distance. We’ll agree a point further out to leave their supplies, will we?”
“Absolutely,” Pitt said, riding on the wave of this remarkably simple success. He gave Kether a congratulatory nod, keeping this brisk and professional. Though he itched to know more about this situation, and what they’d seen of the elusive race of nevolk, he resisted asking, in case the curiosity undermined his authority. He was already aware the orders had come out a little too much like a request. He was distracted anyway by Chiara turning to walk away, the task apparently complete.
“Good day, gentlemen,” she called out over a shoulder as she approached the base of the village clock tower. Pitt moved to follow her but she paused as she reached a door, giving him a look with the slight shake of her head. “I’m visiting my brother. Wait here.”
Thrown by the sudden dismissal, her tone oddly cold, he stood mute as she entered and left him behind. Pitt watched the door for a moment, considering following her anyway, but he turned away and avoided meeting the nearby soldiers’ eyes, sure they’d be amused at his expense. He waited, looking aimlessly out between the buildings, with the sinking feeling of having been used. Had issuing these orders been more contentious than he’d realised?
Soon, Chiara exited the tower with a brief smile – a flat one, now – and a simple instruction, “Let’s get back shall we?”
And just like that, the deed was done and they were returning through the woods, the sun creeping down. She walked ahead, saying nothing. Pitt asked, “That went well, I suppose?”
She hummed agreement, not looking back.
“How was your brother? Well?”
“Yes,” she replied, nothing more. Wow. Still, he pressed for engagement.
“It’s a lovely area. Have you lived here all your life?”
“Yes.”
“And you like it?”
Chiara finally stopped with a tut. “Quiet time for the way back, perhaps?”
And he was left to fall behind again, hurt and unsure. Was it all a put-on, the journey there? He’d expected manipulation from the start, but she’d seemed to enjoy his company. He pushed down the disappointment. Contented himself with the fresh air and the view of her walking ahead. A good chance to clear his mind, he considered, before trying again to conjure a shield. Except the closer they got to town, the bigger his anxiety grew again. He would be no more able to parse than before, having blundered into issuing orders he probably shouldn’t have.
Never mind. A day well spent in fine company was enough in itself. He would let it lie – after he gave it one more try, anyway, determining to ask Chiara if he could get her a drink. See her again. She might say no, but maybe she was just tired, or needed time to warm to the idea. They reached the alleys of Sober Sound, and he was about to ask, when Dalton Terrifold’s angry voice called out, “There you are, you foolish child. What have you been doing?”
7
Popular perceptions of the nevolk in western Boldarow were, in the early eighth century, principally formed through the comic character of Mr Skimister, a devilish figure who appeared in the Stanish broadsheet, The Vasseer Times. Mr Skimister was famous for his catchphrase, “I’ll sever your gizzards!”, regularly shouted after the inevitable thwarting of his nefarious plots.
