The corridors of the Merchants Quarter barracks were cold after sundown. Elania Gallyn had grown up in those barracks, however, and she had become accustomed to the cold. She removed her leather gloves and tucked them into her belt as she stepped into her cramped quarters. Leaning both hands on the plain, polished table abutting the wall, she closed her eyes and bowed her head. Word had reached her that Galgun’s army had arrived near to the city. By now it would be moving in disparate columns, approaching the Curtain. It was time for her to move, to ensure the safe passage of the army inside Caran’s walls. Disabling the Curtain Guard left her stomach in knots; a most heinous act of treason, even to some who despised the nobility. She’d spent the past two years preparing for this moment, telling herself that what she did was for the greater good. If all went to plan, she could avoid any bloodshed and she would make her peace with the Guardsmen later. She clamped her jaw together, the sinews in her neck standing out like the roots of a tree. Ten bells from now, this would be over. An end to her torment.
Her captains were already assembled in the map room. The twins, Palin and Bruff, backs straight as they stood to attention, despite constant reminders to be at ease around her. They had been a solid, stoic presence by her side ever since she had risen to her current position. They had become a strange sort of tether to a time when she wasn’t some perverse heroine of the people, when life was much simpler. When her only concern was how to swing her swords to the best of her ability.
Then there was Munul. No one was sure where the woman was from originally, including Munul herself. At least that was the tale she liked to peddle. Her story went that she arrived on a trader ship from the gods knew where when she was a child. Elania had her own past and asked no questions. Elania wasn’t well travelled, but it was obvious Munul hadn’t been taught to fight anywhere close to Caran. Her odd stance and her leaping fighting style was difficult to read. And she was good. Which meant Elania liked to spar with her often.
Munul leaned against a wall in her typical languid style, only her eyes moving as Elania entered. There was no deference in that look, or in her body language. Palin and Bruff didn't approve, but Elania wouldn't change anything about Munul for all the gold in Caran’s vaults. If it weren’t for the strictures demanded by the chain of command, Elania had often thought she may have become good friends with Munul.
Finally, there was Denning. It had taken a long time for Elania to warm to him. In her younger years, she had weighed people by their fighting ability, and Denning had little enough of that. It was only after her own elevation that she had truly appreciated the qualities Denning possessed. He was a natural leader with an uncanny ability to bring even the most stubborn noble officers around to his way of thinking. Though he had an outwardly jovial disposition, she knew Denning to be fiercely ambitious. Indeed, she had relied on that to bring him over to the rebel cause. The promise of promotion under the new regime had been too good an opportunity for a man like Denning to refuse.
Munul and the twins had needed no convincing. It lay heavy on her shoulders, but the three of them were hers. Not Caran’s, but hers. They would run through the Curtain if she asked them to. Denning had been a risk, but if this plan were to work, she needed him. Elania held favour with the soldiers under her command, but asking them to commit treason en masse would test that favour to its fullest. The task would be several times easier with Denning at her side.
She moved along the edge of the huge table. Someone had set out a large map of the city and the surrounding hills. Probably the twins’ doing. She stood in place, four sets of expectant eyes upon her. The usual wave of nervousness rose within, the nagging feeling of being wholly unequipped for command. This was the sort of situation where Denning came into his own. Elania swallowed, grasped for something to say. She went through the same process as ever, hoping something profound would come to her, only to find that as the uncomfortable silence stretched, any words at all would suffice.
‘You all know the plan by now, so I won't repeat it. All I can really tell you is that things won't go according to plan. Be prepared and keep your runners close. It’s imperative that lines of communication remain open.’
She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘We’re all familiar with what duty entails. At some point tonight, we’ll all be asked to make difficult choices. Treason, spilling the blood of fellow Caranin. Not only those opposed to our cause, but those who are neutral, innocent even.
‘Nothing is certain, but the fighting will begin the moment we step out of this room. The soldiers you share these barracks with will seek to tear each other apart. But you know the drill, imprison and contain where we can, kill if we have to. Take down the noble officers quickly to quell the troops loyal to them. Any questions?’
Munul looked disinterested, leaning against the wall and checking her nails for signs of dirt. The twins were as impassive as ever; they would have been over every facet of this plan between the two of them countless times, tried to work out every divergence that might occur. They would never change, but they were capable captains both.
Denning became quiet, pursing his lips as he looked for holes in the plan. Elania reached forward to point to a spot on the map. ‘According to my latest information, Galgun’s companies should be…’
A flicker of motion appeared in the corner of Elania’s eye, followed by a strangled gurgle from over her shoulder. Her swords were out of their sheaths in a flash, but Denning had already folded into a lifeless heap. The clatter of metal on stone rang out around the map room as his knife bounced to the floor.
Palin and Bruff were at her side in three heartbeats, but it was Munul to whom she looked. The woman met her gaze with a level stare.
‘The dirty, fish-loving son of a ram!’ Palin pushed Denning’s corpse over, revealing a small knife with intricate carving on the handle jutting from Denning’s neck; Munul’s knife. An excellent throw; it had taken the main artery, dropping the man instantly.
Bruff had bent to retrieve Denning’s hand-length blade that had fallen onto the floor. ‘This was obviously meant for you, Commander.’
Elania turned to Munul again, but a small shake of the head from the woman caused Elania to swallow her words of gratitude. Shame rose within her. Not because Munul didn’t want to be thanked in front of the twins, but because she’d made a serious error in judgement. Denning’s ambition had led to treachery. There was a chance he’d merely wanted to take her position at the head of the rebellion, but the chances were that he’d secured a deal of some sort with the nobility in exchange for her life.
Now he was gone, and so were many of the men and women he would have brought over to the cause. She straightened and looked her captains in the eye, and was pleased to see none of them quail.
‘Things just got a lot harder.’
She watched Munul and the twins filter out of the room and she rammed her swords back into their sheaths.
It has begun. We’re coming for you, you bastards.
Nactivel didn't lead what she considered an exciting life. Her mentor had trained and sculpted her to be the unseen voice in the background, filling in the spaces where lay the details others deemed unimportant or incidental. Removing the skewed, biased view of those who would seek to document history on their terms.
This was her motivation to reach the esteemed ranks of the Chroniclers. Her daydreams had been filled with visions of her older self, hunched over a desk with a stack of papers, quill scribbling furiously into the small hours as the lamp oil burned low. She well knew she would have to travel, but what young Erey didn’t want to see all that this world offered? She would travel to the far-flung reaches of this world, attaching herself to kings, queens, heroes and gods. Their words and deeds would be recollected as undeniable truths.
What she hadn't imagined, what her mentor and the other Chroniclers had failed to fully apprise her of, was the sort of situation she now faced. Attached to the wilfully half-witted, newly appointed aides of Commander Galgun, on the cusp of a battle that had been brewing for over two years.
As if the danger of death wasn't enough, the night was cold this close to the coast. A prevailing wind whipped up the valley to where they stood. Countless armies had stood there throughout the annals of time. Every one which had been foolish enough to attack had shattered upon the immense structure barring the width of the valley below. The Curtain had never been breached. Or almost never.
Nactivel’s understanding of military tactics stretched only as far as her studies allowed, which was far by most people’s standards. However, Galgun lived and breathed that life; when he spoke, his captains listened. Galgun listened in turn, and wasn’t too proud to adapt when good sense stared him in the face. A man worth following, based on Nactivel’s observations.
This apparent folly came as a huge surprise, then. That this perfectly competent, genial commander should prove to be the latest in a long line to think he might be the one to best the edifice below. Hubris wasn't a trait Nactivel would have ascribed to the man. Yet here they were, ostensibly preparing to simply march down the valley and batter the side of a mountain into submission. A sense of disappointment settled upon her; she’d expected better.
It was possible Galgun had something up his sleeve, some fillip Nactivel wasn’t privy to. She’d agreed to the commander’s terms of limited access to the assault plans, and this army had its origins inside the wall they were about to make an attempt on. If it were that easy, however, Nactivel was sure an account of something similar from one of her forebears would be sitting in Hediminath. In which case, she would have read about it.
Thousands of breaths, human and bestial, converged above the massed columns of soldiery to form a thin mist, perpetually replenished as it steamed skyward. Restlessness trailed through the ranks, flitting from one company to another and back again, nerves jangling in tune with armour and weapons. This was a skittish bunch, that much was palpable even to Nactivel, who possessed limited interaction with humans. Was it they knew they were untested? Was it eagerness, or was it perhaps dread they were about to instigate a civil war in the land they all, at heart, had some measure of love for?
To Nactivel’s left, Waddle blew out a bored breath, watching it plume into the ether. ‘What we waiting for?’ he asked of no-one in particular.
Sharps was ready with an answer. ‘To attack. Sometimes, Waddle, I reckon you ain’t got the brains to be a soldier, and soldiering is really just swinging a sword and avoiding getting hit. Raefar only knows how you got bumped up to aide.’
‘I got bumped up to aide to stop you tripping over your own stupidity and cutting yourself to pieces.’
‘See what I mean? Now that makes no sense; you can’t trip up over stupidity. Rocks and bootlaces, o’ course, but not stupidity. You’re lucky I’m around to keep you pointed in the right direction.’
‘And what’s the right direction, Sharps?’ Waddle’s voice had taken on a tired tone.
Sharps returned him an exasperated look. ‘The direction we get told to go in. First thing we learn at military school. “Do what you stupid louts are told!” And I gone and learned that good and proper.’
Waddle’s grip on his sword tightened. They had subjected Nactivel to days of this back-and-forth. Exercises in developing patience had been at the core of the teachings of the Chroniclers. It wasn’t for the Erey to interfere or prompt, only to observe. Her current situation was providing a lesson even her elders couldn’t match. So much so that if her two companions ever found themselves short of work or purpose, surely the Erey could use them to root out the weaker students.
She went through the mental exercises she’d been taught, but her diligence did little to displace the frustration growing within her. She wasn’t at the heart of matters, despite her efforts to get closer to Galgun and the quite fascinating priest, Aggreka. Negotiation was never her strongest trait during her studies; the wider world was throwing up challenges she didn’t feel equal to.
A Lieutenant was pacing up and down the columns, trying to keep a lid on the nervousness that appeared to be seeping into the ranks. Nactivel scoured her mental notes. Carreva, that was her name. She strolled past, arms behind a straight back, eyes stern. Those eyes did a double take as Waddle snapped a smart salute at her. Carreva moved like a viper and punched him in the side of the head, felling him instantly. He rolled on the floor, rubbing his ear as he shot a questioning look up at Carreva.
‘Never salute an officer in sight of the enemy, soldier. You know that,’ Carreva snapped.
Nactivel caught motion from the corner of her eye. Sharps’ shoulders were shaking as he attempted to stifle a laugh; the man flinched as Carreva stepped closer.
‘What are you two doing here, anyway? Why aren’t you with your squad?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘Been bumped up to aide, Sir,’ returned Sharps, sticking his chest out.
‘By whom?’
‘By the commander himself.’
‘Both of you?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
Carreva grunted and shook her head. ‘Well, I’ve seen it all now. Front of the column, the three of you.’
Waddle and Sharps exchanged a strangled look, but they knew better than to argue. Nactivel watched them traipse off, Waddle shoving his fellow aide. ‘What did you have to go and salute for?’
‘Last time I didn’t salute her, she punched me in the head, that’s why!’
‘Can’t win with these officer types, Sharps. That’ll change when this is all over and we become officers, let me tell you.’
‘We’re too smart to become officers, Waddle.’
‘That we are.’
Carreva arched an eyebrow at Nactivel. ‘Well? I believe I instructed you to remain attached to your escort.’
She couldn’t be serious. ‘Oh, yes, but not on the front line. I’m here to observe, you see.’
‘Where better to observe from than the front? An unobstructed view, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Well, yes, but I’m not really…’
‘I’m not renowned for my patience, my friend.’
Nactivel found her mouth clamped shut under the assault of that grey-eyed gaze. She glanced away, down, only to find Carreva’s hand resting on the pommel of her sword. A hard people, these rebels, and eager for violence. She gave a curt nod and was soon pushing in between her two escorts. As everyone around her jostled for position, she felt strangely comforted by the solid twin presences at her side. She tried to work some saliva into her dry mouth. ‘Well, Sirs, this is hardly ideal, is it?’
The pair leaned forward and shared a stupid grin, followed by a nod. ‘We got your back, Nactibells,’ Waddle growled, clapping her on the shoulder.
Approval at last. The price is too high.
Nactivel stared straight ahead, greeted by a wall of some magically imbued stone that wouldn’t yield. Nor would the men atop it. The Curtain Guard. Much diminished since the days when it served as the elite of the elite, but the soldiers who bore that uniform took their duty seriously. Or so she’d picked up from the chatter around the camp. She couldn’t see them, but they were there, waiting for the rebels to march into bow range. And she was on the front line without a shield. What chance did she have against such an onslaught? She didn’t share the optimism of Waddle and Sharps; if they were concerned, they hid it well.
A shout came from one of the other columns, and a wall of sound rose to her right. Boots stomped and weapons clanked as the column surged forward. Waddle sucked his lips. ‘Well, that ain’t part of the plan.’
Nactivel’s stomach lurched. Her confidence in the commander had been part of her reason for standing among the troops to observe, rather than from a nearby hill. That and the Elders had always told her to get as close to things as possible. If they could see me now. Her knees felt as though they might give at any point. Galgun rode up and down the front of the columns, sword waving above his head. ‘Go! Get after those brainless sons of whores! Fan out, shields up! Take the gates. The gates!’
Pressure from behind pushed her on, lest she be trampled. Her legs refused to work, and the ground rose to meet her. What an ignominious end this would be.
A heavy hand grabbed the scruff of her robe, dragging her upright and into a stuttering run. Sharps. Her chest was already burning with the effort of keeping up with the soldiers. A shout she didn’t understand pierced the night and shields went up as one. Moments later, arrows thudded into wood and flesh behind her. The screams of the wounded and the dying grew faint as she ran on, ever on, dragged along by the unrelenting Sharps and the gentle slope of the valley as it funnelled them towards their demise.
It was the first time, she realised, that she felt genuinely helpless. It was a moment of revelation, in which she understood first hand why people worshipped the Gods. Something to fill the void when all choices were bad choices. Was faith then merely misdirection? What a time to be pondering such a question.
Death rained from above. Others had overtaken her and now bodies like pincushions fouled her steps. The screams and groans washed over her, as some sort of protective mental barrier went up to shield her from the horror of what surrounded her.
During their advance, the city gates had been closed shut. Two small gates flanked an enormous wooden structure that spanned the river, and the icy waters flowed on unabated underneath. Soldiers jumped into the freezing, churning, dark frenzy of the river to escape the bombardment from above. Was there a way through? She soon had her answer as bodies bobbed, lifeless, up against the implacable barrier.
She choked vomit down the front of her robes as they reached the wall. A glance upwards revealed the structure to be impossibly huge. Like a seamless cliff that some giant from legend had dropped into place to confound generations of mortals.
She was pressed up against the wall fifty paces along from the gate. The shields held up above her head provided some respite from the arrow fire, but men and women still dropped as the thick pointed heads found a way through.
There came a break in the steady thud of arrows against shields. Was that it? Had something happened inside the walls? Perhaps word had been given that she was among fellow Caranin. Or had Galgun surrendered? She heard a growing rumble and then a louder crash, as wood splintered and screams rang out just five paces away.
The smell of burning flesh assaulted her, and she retched once again. With her stomach empty, bile burned the inside of her throat. A voice, maybe Waddle’s, was shouting at her. ‘They’re chucking burning rocks down at us! We got to move, sharpish!’
Nactivel slunk back against the wall, knees drawn up, hands over her ears. It was all she could do to concentrate on sucking in agonised, stuttering breaths. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to close off each of her senses. But the soft thud of hot rock slicing through human flesh still reached her ears, and the smell of seared meat still sickened her. Whoever was tugging at her to stand and run gave up, leaving her with the dead and the dying. She wasn’t too proud to feel sorry for herself in that moment as a pitiful end beckoned.