A Mist of Grit and Splinters

by Graydon Saunders

  Such few additional targets as we must create — chiefly the armoury, out of the count of Line facilities — are in principle robust. We cannot expect to have a battalion in garrison even at the armoury, so this robustness is more potential than realized. It was possible that the talent-workers housed in the armoury would be able to make use of its defensive design; we hoped so, and it was made to be so. It was not certain, and I should rather never to have seen it tested.

  The coming of spring brought redeployment.

  In the Four Provinces of the Creeks resided eight independents of considerable and militant talents. The Line had had to suppose the availability of their services when making plans for the general defence. However much this goes against custom and preference, the present population did not support the necessary formations for our existing length of border. Six of these eight were absent from us throughout the five hundredth and forty-fifth year of the Peace; the City State refugees who proceeded up the Second Valley of the Folded Hills are still there, and we had still to fear a large force of Sea People sent in pursuit of those refugees, whether to destroy them or to follow them in conquest.

  So well as we might understand, the City-Staters were indeed fleeing; they knew only they were moving away from the Sea People in passing up the Second Valley. That the Sea People knew this of the City-Staters is doubtful. They may well have supposed the City-Staters were moving to a known place of refuge or to seek help from some significant power. So we must suppose that when the Sea People returned in strength, one of the places they might arrive was at the southern limit of the Second Valley. Which was, in one regard, helpful to us. That portion of the Second Valley is not inhabited and would present difficulties of advance even were it not defended. If there must be undertaken a sorcerous defence of the Second Commonweal’s borders in the old manner, that high and lake-filled rocky valley was a better place than it might be for it to take place.

  In another regard, the Wapentake’s existing plans had relied on having those independents available to us. Not, we strongly hoped, to fight, but to carry messages both swiftly and secretly. Without that aid, and with the recent example of how awkward concentration of our scattered banners might prove to be, in the spring of five hundred and forty-six I made changes in our deployment. The banners of the First were assembled at the western end of the Edge Road, above and west of the West Wetcreek. The banners of the Second were assembled all together at the southern end of Blue Creek, south of the Edge Road. There are some convenient rises of land there, and we rotated our camp among them to keep in march practice. The standard of the Second moved between these two concentrations as seemed to me useful or prudent.

  The Second could from anywhere in this area signal the Fifth Battalion at the armoury. This we did when the ships of the Sea People were sighted passing the bend in the River of Mists. The armoury could signal the First’s banners, halfway up the eastern slope of the fifth range of the Folded Hills, less obviously than the Second could. Persons in the armoury could reach Parliament and Headwaters to bring the Fourth of the Twelfth and Chert’s Pennon south.

  D-Day Minus 4

  Year of Peace 547, Messidor, Eighth Day (Early Summer)

  Duckling

  Colour Party for an artillery battalion is a platoon skilled with pointy sticks. Hank’s brought just that and the standard of the Fifth down the canal from the armoury; stopped on the east bank of the West Wetcreek. We’re just far enough north for the standards of the Fifth and the Second to communicate directly. Crinoline’s just far enough south to talk to Hank. Chert’s just far enough south to talk to Crinoline.

  Four/Twelve’s halted for the night. Chert’s pennon’s coming down on barges. They had a brisk march to Hill Road Landing. Chert ain’t getting further away; Chert ought to be getting closer. There’s a tangle, with the barges. Everything going north is Longbarns evacuating. Once Longbarns is done, it should start being more northerly settlements. Won’t have time. Nobody’s walking in the dark. At dawn they will be walking.

  Stopped observation before noon. Too much risk of providing a target when the battalions weren’t concentrated. What we’ve got’s not the best news.

  You can see Chert’s standard-bearer. You can see the pennon sergeant-major. Little else; Chert’s wrapped in a cloud of gloom. Hopefully not so large the barge has navigation problems. Chert just got close enough, so Chert just got the observation summary. “Two-hundred-and-fifty thousand.”

  “Estimated effectives.” Hank. “Hundred thousand supports and sailors.”

  “I presume we’re not standing in front of them.” Crinoline.

  “Soft Rain,” Slow says.

  “Five days?” Crinoline don’t approve.

  “Three. Survey complete.” Slow’s speaking cadence goes with moving at a jog. We all are; I haven’t had to say anything. Two-Fierce is across the West Wetcreek. Uniform is landing. Thorn is loading. Colour Party’s trailing. The First should be across the Fifth Range of the Folded Hills.

  “Six barge-loads.” You can feel Hank’s wry in the bones of your face. “Ought to help.”

  Soft Rain supposes two barge-loads of extra pointy sticks to the blocking battalions. They’d be getting eight, if Hank had eight barges. Shot Team’s diligent.

  “Your plan names are Chill Mist, Soft Rain, Heaped Leaves, and Warm Sun.” General Chert’s had the plans since winter but I doubt they’ve read them. I ain’t read the plans for the hell-things coming east or Sea People up any of the four valleys of the Folded Hills, and I ain’t as busy as a general. Quick work to get them out of the pennon already.

  “Heaped Leaves employs independents.” Slow. The standard only passes sounds when you’re talking. The hum of wheelbarrow wheels comes through, and the steady thump of boots. I can see Chert’s face start showing questions. Slow goes on. “Chill Mist supposes fewer adversaries. Warm Sun supposes no maneuver battalions.”

  Hope Chert don’t read Heaped Leaves. Or Warm Sun.

  “Down here to brief you.” Hank. “Pennon gets the east bank.” The west bank has the continuous road, and Crinoline’s on it. Towpath tomorrow. Road’ll be one-way north.

  “Interaction?” Chert’s coming back on balance.

  “Spot ate something.” Hank. “Not a demon. Wind-walker, maybe.”

  “Soft Rain supposes a Sea People attempt to achieve submission through military victory.” Crinoline. “What Shadow got from the first bunch isn’t certain, but distant pooled dominion is a plausible risk.”

  If you kill the sorcerer, their dominion ends. If it’s some sort of distant anchor, you have to find that and destroy it. Less simple task.

  “We’re the bait?” Chert’s half-wry.

  “Plug,” Slow says. “We must not suppose them obliged to transfer another’s dominion.”

  “Right down on the Edge and give them a target,” Crinoline says. “Don’t let them up.”

  “How much of this is yours?” Chert means Crinoline, and you can tell. The standards pass your conversational intent.

  “Quantification for Four/Twelve.” Crinoline’s smile comes through. “Soft Rain’s the only plan Four/Twelve’s engaged.”

  “Slow and Eugenia.” Hank. “I need Eugenia running Ochre, Slow needs to march.” ‘Why I’m your briefer’ is implied. Chert’s responsible for the Folded Hills and how to block any of the valleys. Nothing says the Sea People will pick the Second Valley just because that’s where the City-Staters are. Soft Rain’s the only plan we need Chert’s pennon.

  There’s a definite pause.

  “I am concerned,” Chert says, “at the level of operational risk.” Meaning we would lose ten banners and a standard.

  “I am concerned some may escape.” Slow’s whole voice.

  Regular One’s ain’t supposed to have a sense of humour. Hank’s smiling anyway. “Information leakage should be avoided.”

  “It is a measure of our circumstances that we seek to engage five battalions under four standards dra
wn from three brigades in two operational areas,” Slow says. Slow’s sense of humour, pointing out our co-ordination’s missing with that mix. “Nor may we be certain this is the sole force available to the Sea People.”

  Not what you want to think about a quarter of a million troops. Hundred and four battalions.

  “Any establishment of a remote dominion must be avoided,” Slow says like you’d say “The Power has altered the world”. “Exploitation of interior lines requires unengaged forces.”

  “Couple of thousand in the first wave,” Chert says strictly to Slow.

  Slow nods. “Ten banners.” It comes with a graceful-even-for-Slow rendition of the gesture for ‘Have to try it and see’. Even Slow shouldn’t be able to do it loping along.

  Nine banners is enough people for half-again the multiplier Thorn had. Ten banners means fifteen times Thorn’s output. Thorn could almost throw fast enough.

  “Couple thousand at the armoury, maybe.” Not my place to talk, particularly, but Slow thinks this is obvious. Slow’s obvious’s unreliable in others.

  Hank nods. “Wreaking teams can push the wall-wards. I’ll run targets for both batteries.”

  Slow’s expression’s reminiscent of a smile. Not the same way as Hank’s. Neither the least bit worried.

  Chert thinks about saying something, doesn’t. No offensive tasking for the battery commanders. Eugenia gets the bubble, Blossom gets the periphery. Hank’s being impeccably practical.

  “How’s the mix on the sticks?” Crinoline.

  “You haven’t drilled with hungry so I didn’t send you any.” Hank’s tone’s gone flat. “Full mix otherwise and it’s all on shafts.”

  The pennon and Four/Twelve started practicing after the Fight Below the Edge. Tradition can only be so reluctant.

  “Couple barge-loads more if we can turn the barges around quick enough.”

  We want nothing moving on the water once the Sea People start pushing.

  There’s a position-and-movement image passed around, annotations and information from all the standards. It runs out four days.

  Nobody says anything about luck or the future. There’s a feeling; not consensus in the focus, it’s back through all the standards together. Consensus of the Standard-Captains, operant.

  Everybody says “Peace behind us.” The standard goes quiet, nothing in it but our moving bubble of night.

  Colour Party keeps running.

  D-Day Minus 3

  Year of Peace 547, Messidor, Ninth Day (Early Summer)

  General Chert

  Fourth, Pennon. Two or one?

  Pennon, Fourth. Two.

  It’s not even a coin flip. Could be fatal, could be perfect, no way to tell. If it comes down to trying to hold both sides of the river we’ve had it. But we want to make the Sea People spread their front and their works so they have to give a flank to someone.

  Getting off the barges puts us a little back of Crinoline. Four/Twelve’s got a big pile of sediment shifting out of the West Wetcreek. The water goes through the Edge but the dirt doesn’t, or doesn’t all; the coarse stuff stays above. The Creeks come down here for building gravel.

  The Edge bumps up; it rises to a ridge, and a long ridge with a peak has a military crest. Crinoline’s going compact tetrahedral back into the south slope’s crest, just west of where the river’d go over if it got this far. Puts the battlements maybe four hundred metres from the cliff-edge. Two-tube bastions at the ends of the narrow front wall. Company to each flank, company to the front, two in reserve. Walls getting tall with another load of sediment. Enough steam for a real fog as the molten glass wall faces cool.

  “Round, sir?” Sergeant-major of the Army of the Western Hills. The pennon works out so they direct digging.

  “Round.” Only one Experimental Battery. Round’s best for the bubble. “Round fortification, roof and galleries. Notch wide, not deep.” Emphatic nods. Eleven different Creeks have been four kinds of insistent that you can dig down through the top few metres of the Edge, but no more. No idea what’s going to happen if a demon tries to go deep.

  “It’s not hell-things.” There are a few smiles in the Colour Party, affirming motions strong enough to rattle armour. Only so many Sea People here now. Killing them all is a practical ambition.

  Nobody thinks we’re going to survive, which is simpler.

  Twelve hundred metres between inside walls, us to the Fourth; close enough we can get pointy sticks over each other’s bubble.

  Chert, Crinoline.

  Crinoline, Chert.

  You got preferences about ‘keep the attention of the Sea People force’?

  They’re headed this way. If they stop —  and I get the impression of a shrug. Quicker than I’d like.

  We’re going to have to fight them. Maybe not hold them, but fight them.

  Last march for the Old Line.

  You getting maudlin? Crinoline’s animated, call it.

  Got to thinking how I’d report. Report to the First Commonweal, to the Parliament that made the Army of the Iron Bridge and sent it into the Second Commonweal before that existed. The small noise I get from Crinoline makes it clear they understand ‘report’.

  If the hell-things just went away? There’s one of Crinoline’s real smiles, there in the focus. Won’t be any lack of trying.

  Makes me smile, because that one starts with your warrant of authority. No corpses, nothing’s on fire, you can’t say you tried. Get a warrant of commission and you can never say you tried; live or die, get the job done.

  No Peace.

  Crinoline doesn’t argue with me. So far, everyone wants one.

  The memory and the ideal and the hope, but. Too much economy gone to militant purposes.

  Whatever the Line finds to defend must find the Peace again, Crinoline says. I’ve got that in the instructions to those holding authority as a warning.

  D-Day Minus 3

  Year of Peace 547, Messidor, Ninth Day (Early Summer)

  Duckling

  The Edge south of the Fourth Valley’s high, and goes vertical into a mess of tide-washed rocks and brackish quicksand. Either battalion can handle that, but not and be quiet. So we head up the west side of the Fourth Valley; it’s not a developed pass, but it’s there. Marching by platoons makes a lot of movement possible you can’t make with column of banners.

  Slow’s got the standard of the Second over one shoulder. The Second’s standard-bearer never gets far from the wheelbarrow that’s got the proper javelins. “So we can trade” got inflected like a joke the first time Slow carried the standard themself.

  Camp. Carefully do not imagine who will come back for the neat rank of empty wheelbarrows that had yesterday’s rations.

  South; there’s a rough road down the Edge at the foot of the Third Valley. There’s a surveyor and an independent. The surveyor’s got a couple focus teams with them, to get rid of the road. The Independent Etch intends to come with. Slow agrees, up to the Fifth Range as it exists Below.

  Stand in ranks, all clumped up tight. The point is to be a surprise, not an advance of Power engaged at a distance. Obvious, and everyone knows that’s the plan. Everybody’s looking like maybe getting the flinch when Slow orders Prepare to case banners anyway. This ain’t settled country. Strange weeds, familiar weeds, either’s a futile death.

  Slow fishes a box of boxes out of the standard, and then ten bags of gauntlet laces.

  The little boxes are bug-charms by the five-hundred. I get the nod from Slow and start handing out bug charms. Ninny and Tact get to walk a file down the lines of the First and Second, one box and one bag to a banner and pass the remainder back when you’re done. Nine empty boxes and one half-empty by the time the colour parties get their charms. Little and aluminium, like the usual bug charm, but different; these’re orange and more like a narrow flat bead than a jar label. “Comprehensive,” Slow says, saving me from having to try to describe the difference between citrusy and clean and plain citrusy as smells in a que
stion. “Single use.”

  Slow has more than two for everyone, I can count boxes, but I can listen to Slow, too, and make sure Meek and Brisket heard it. Those in authority get direct and repetitive about ‘single use’. Turn it on and leave it on.

  If we were on a weeding team, the usual place’d be down the back of the shield-hand gauntlet under the lining where it won’t bend. Gauntlets have to come off; mustn’t be taking these off. All the armour’s on wheelbarrows. The laces are new and cool in the hand. Nobody makes gauntlet laces in silk, if it is silk. They’re woven round, and wide enough; the charm goes in the end that hasn’t got an aiglet. Slow waited until Meek and Brisket both looked, dragging the attention of four-fifths of those in authority with them, and then demonstrated. Tuck the lace end into itself, of course Slow’s got a sewing needle threaded, and then the end of the lace with the aiglet on goes into a coiffeur’s needle and Slow’s hair, wiggle-slither-vanish.

  Meek makes an aggrieved face. You shouldn’t be able to do that in your own hair, and it’s grieved Meek since they were kids that Slow can do it like pulling up socks. There’s a quick sort of murmur through the First and Second. Hair, knotted round the neck, wrapped on to a wrist, it all works. Slow stitches mine into my braids neat and solid.

  Charms come up by files through the ranked banners. Last is Slow, me, Meek with Brisket mirroring their raised arm, then down the double line of part-captains.

  Case the banners. Case the standard. Strange and itchy and awkward, to be out here in a wilderness and nobody latched. Smells like ice and darkness, and it didn’t.

  More column of platoons, down the rough road and on to the Cousin’s narrow tracks. No armour, we want to move, but there’s shields and war-swords ready to grab on the wheelbarrows. Wouldn’t usually put those over the sticks. Brisket’s out front and shifts to column of files as One-Fierce moves off the rough road. Six hundred files is sixteen kilometres long in column of files. Everybody out front runs up from a trot, trying to keep the shift to files from clogging the track.