Skyclad (Fate's Anvil Book 1)

by Scott Browder

  Millie liked the old man. He didn’t talk much, and he never pestered her to speak, either. Few tried anymore, although Erin had been concerned, in a very comforting and motherly way, for the first several weeks after they’d taken the orphan girl in. But only Old Hett and Jacob himself had seemed to be unfazed at all by her silence. As if the thought of the man had summoned him, hoofbeats approached at a steady trot just as the first rays of dawn peeked over the eastern horizon. He went past the back of the wagon where she sat, talking quietly with Hett as she finished her breakfast and washed it down with water from the skin. The now-familiar sounds of the caravan stirring to wakefulness washed over her as she ate, preparing for yet another long day of hard marching.

  It took her more time than most to finish her repast, but she was improving her abilities to function with one arm with each and every day. Bracing the water skin between her knees, she stoppered the cork back into place just as the Battlemaster walked his horse alongside the back of the wagon. He spoke quietly but clearly, and without the pity most seemed to think the girl needed. She was grateful for that, more than she would ever be able to tell the man.

  “Another half-bell, and then drum the wake-up call, if you would, Miss Millie,” he said without dismounting. On the back of his oversized charger, he was as tall as if he were standing on the wagon itself. “We’re marching hard today, so it’s a fast beat until we break at noon to rest the horses.”

  Hett spat a wad of tobacco juice from the front of the wagon as his mules snorted. “And the mules, of course, Mister Hett,” added the Battlemaster.

  Millie nodded, looping the strap of her drum over her right shoulder and securing it to her left leg with another belt. Keeping the musical instrument in place with only one arm had taken some ingenuity, but practice had led her to figure out her own way. The worst part now was fastening the buckles with only one hand, but she’d refused help often enough that people no longer offered, much to her relief.

  “Can you keep it up until noon, lass?” Jacob asked. “Or will you need a Stamina potion?”

  She shook her head, offering a thumbs-up and a slight smile. She could play the drum for an entire day, now that she’d levelled her skills and her own abilities had improved. The general didn’t waste extra words or her time, merely thumping the side of the wagon in approval as he took the reins of his horse in the other hand.

  “Carry on, then, soldier.”

  The words, somehow amplified, slammed into Millie’s mind, her jaw dropping open in shock as the notification followed a half a heartbeat later.

  The [Blacklance Battlemaster] has granted you the Title of [Soldier]! Class Selection options have changed to reflect the opportunities and responsibilities provided by this Title.

  A Soldier never marches alone; she walks with the weight of tradition and the history of all who tread before and after.

  Jacob Ward rocked back in his saddle; the pulse of power that had left him at the utterance of the words drained him somehow, and left a nearly palpable feeling in the air. Millie recovered from the shock as he shouted for Erin and Hett, demanding explanations. She paid him no heed, instinctively seizing the opportunity before anyone or anything could stop her. Her head drooped, and she leapt into the darkness.

  Gone was the farmhouse. Gone was the bitter memory of failure and loss that she’d been reliving for days with no respite. She stood next to a road under a heavy, cloudless, grey sky. Dried grass and gravel crunched under her feet, and she looked down to see boots of an unfamiliar style adorning them, laced up to mid-calf. The leather she understood, but not the strange material of the soles when she raised her foot to look. Despite the oddities, the boots felt right.

  Above the boots were pants of a material she’d never seen, mottled shades of green, brown, and grey seemingly blended together. A heavy shirt in a similar lack of pattern covered her from the waist up, and a strange, thin chain around her neck held two rectangular plates that bore her name and what looked to her like numbers, though she couldn’t understand the actual runes. She’d seen The General and his wife Erin both writing similar things when counting the wagons and sacks of food for the march, so the girl assumed they were in a written language from the Worldwalkers’ home.

  She wasn’t alone, either. Another version of her stood in front of her in an even stranger uniform. Her other image stood at crisp attention, her uniform forgoing the chaotic mottling for a more formal appearance, green coat over pale breeches standing out from the background, where the previous uniform had tried to hide in it. Different insignia covered the left breast, and although this image was missing its left arm as well, the neat folding and pinning took nothing away from the order the figure emanated. Her mirror image locked eyes with her and raised her hand to her brow in what could only be a symbolic gesture, then faded away, as though she were made of mist.

  The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps. Just one pair at first, then it swelled into a rumble of more boots than she could ever have counted. A few heartbeats later, and thousands of figures marched into view from around a bend in the road. Millie stared for a long moment, trying to understand, to remember the things she’d heard about classes.

  The figures were all her. Some wore uniforms, others were outfitted with armor; some bore swords, and others held maces in firm grips. To a person, they all tirelessly marched forward, eyes locked straight ahead, and jaws set in determined lines. One, near the front, bore a silver flute, the only flash of color amidst the endless sea of grey.

  The road led over the horizon, where the sun hung low in the sky, red and bloated. More sounds reached her ears: rumbles, crashes of thunder, and screaming. Onward the soldiers marched, unflinching, toward the terrible clamor. Young though she was, Millie already knew the sounds of battle. She watched herself walk past in numbers beyond counting. She’d exchanged no words with her other self, as she’d heard others recount their own experiences when gaining a class. She felt none were needed, now that she’d broken out of the looping horrors of endlessly repeating memory. She watched, and she considered. The flute had felt closer than the others to a proper choice, but it didn’t speak to her.

  After a timeless moment, a different sound rose, almost imperceptibly at first, from the sky: not from the battlefield ahead, but the endless column behind her. The uniforms worn by her other selves began to grow darker, dipped in shadow. Their eyes began to gleam, gazes growing more sinister as the sound of their boots began synchronizing with the flashes of lightning from the low storm which had begun to follow them.

  Finally, a version of herself in full color marched slowly into view. Clad in chainmail and leather, and wearing a helm of blackened iron, this new version of herself seemed somehow more real than the others. A drum, similar to the one the Battlemaster had issued her, sat strapped to her left side, and her right arm—sheathed in a black gauntlet and wielding a steel baton—beat a thunderous cadence against it.

  As the darkened, shadowy figure approached Millie and began to pass her by, she fell in beside her, her footfalls slowly joining the rhythm of the endless march. She’d made her Choice , so long delayed.

  As she swam back to consciousness, the sounds of battle and drumming thunder faded away. She could hear the Battlemaster and his wife arguing, and as she stirred, she saw his eyes were filled with sadness and guilt. His wife averted her gaze, and couldn’t hide her tears.

  She wished she could bring herself to speak, to comfort him, but even though fear no longer ruled her, she made nary a sound as the changes to her Soul took hold of her body.

  She’d traded her words for power, and henceforth, the [Thunderstrike Battle-Bard] would speak only through her drum.

  Chapter 35: Aspect of the Harbinger

  Millie Thatcher sat on the back of a wagon, happily eating her breakfast of a thick slice of fried bacon and a biscuit. She washed them down with water from a skin, before replacing the stopper with a twist of her hand and fingers that was now only slightly awkw
ard instead of truly difficult. The signs of the Deskren encampment could be seen to the southwest, and the caravan buzzed with nervous whispers from the more doubtful civilians. She no longer counted herself among them, and her faith in whatever plan The General had to deal with the enemy was enough to banish her own fears. What that plan might have been, the Battle-Bard had no idea; she merely held to the certainty that he did, in fact, have a plan.

  The caravan had been obliged to slow down after descending into a shallow valley. The ground had been littered with smooth stones, from tiny pebbles up to wagon-sized boulders that had to be navigated around. Short trees and stunted shrub growth grew in sparse patches, scattered across the dried clay that had cracked in the summer sun. The mounts of the lancers had fared much better than most of the wagons, but Hett’s mules merely seemed insulted by the inconvenience. More than a few members of the refugee column had been forced to dodge fist-sized chunks of stone when the hot-tempered equines kicked the obstacles out of their way. At least the terrain was slowing the Deskren as well; a small boon, for the reports brought back by the scouts were something the Battlemaster hadn’t tried to keep secret.

  Gendarmes. The word had spread through the refugees like wildfire, sowing panic in their wake. No mere Hoplites, the elite infantry of the Empire had finally been turned loose on their trail. Millie could see why Jacob hadn’t bothered to keep the rumors quiet: the fear had the refugees packing up in the mornings without complaint, and marching all day without pestering the soldiers for rest, so they’d made good time in the three days they’d been in the shallow valley. To the northwest, the taller trees and hills rose above the flats; she knew they’d reach higher ground and smoother terrain by midday.

  Jacob approached from the direction of the blacksmith’s wagon, carrying a bundle and the reason for Millie’s happy excitement draped over his arm. There’d been no armor sized for one as small as her, and the sight of the fitted chainmail had the girl grinning despite her intent to maintain orderly composure. Soldier or not, and despite growing up fast, she couldn’t help some childish displays.

  “You’ll have to head over to Erin’s tent so she and Jenna can help you get kitted out,” said the Battlemaster, as Millie jumped to her feet to stand at attention. “There’s just no way to fasten the gauntlet and plate for the arm with only one hand.”

  Hett spat a plug of tobacco off the side of the wagon and leaned into the conversation. “Iffen we reach a city, ye can place an order for an arm for the girl.”

  Jacob looked at the old man with incredulity. “I thought that would have to wait until she was grown?”

  “Nay, there’s a [Lifesteel Architect] in Sprocket, the Gnome capital. He takes special jobs like hers, so I hear.”

  “And the price?” Jacob asked warily.

  “Jes’ a small thing,” Hett replied, shaking his head. “With a company of soldiers, honest gold won’t be hard to come by. ‘Specially once the new [Oracle] whips the nobility inta shape at the Gathering of Kings.”

  Jacob turned to look across the encampment, where tents were being packed up and wagons made ready for the march. “We have to get the Deskren off our backs first.”

  Millie listened to the two men as she inspected her new gear. The pants, tunic, and boots she already wore; Miss Erin had made sure to get them properly hemmed up and fitted the day she woke up with her class. Her armored vambrace clasped her arm and connected to a shoulder pauldron, and the outer surface bore a lacquered steel plate, matching the rank patch on her tunic.

  “Aye,” said the Battlemaster after watching her stare for a moment. “Back home it would be gold instead of red, but it seemed more fitting.” His expression turned pensive, and he glanced away. “Back home you’d be in school teasing boys, instead of marching into war.”

  He seemed sad, wracked by a deep-seated grief she couldn’t understand. Millie knew she wasn’t unique, and that many families had been torn apart, or worse, by the Deskren. She felt lucky to have a chance to fight back and actually be effective.

  “They tell me I can’t revoke the Title without damaging your Class and, by extension, your Soul. If you’re stuck being a Soldier because of me, by God, you’ll be the best one I can make you. Report to Erin to get that armor on. You’ll be on the wagon today, where all the troops can see and hear. I want you to drum us up a storm.”

  Millie saluted, then tucked her new gear under her arm and turned away as her commander turned back to Hett to discuss his plans with the old veteran.

  * * *

  Commander Calvin Descroix gazed down at a map pinned to a folding camp table inside the Gendarmes’ command tent. The Battlemaster leading the refugees had become a thorn in his side, slaughtering Hoplite units wholesale, and hitting every supply train his scouts could find. Left to his own devices, the commander would simply have withdrawn and let the refugees escape, but the Imperial Seal on his orders brooked no disobedience, especially when it came to Worldwalkers, who were to be captured at all costs. Even his own life was expendable, should it come to that. His status as the fourth son of the emperor wouldn’t protect him from the old man’s wrath, especially considering his lifelong refusal to marry and produce heirs. The emperor had little patience for anything he saw as useless; Calvin’s only option to remain useful required victories on the field.

  “I hope we bring this chase to a close soon, Commander,” the man on the other side of the tent said. Cruel eyes and a hooked nose perched over the thin mouth that gave rise to that oily voice.

  Excruciator Selunj of the Imperial Overseers outranked Calvin by a technicality and, in his own way, had become as much of an annoyance as the enemy Battlemaster. Following the subjugation of South Hollows, the Deskren army had exhausted its supply of Golden Collars, and the plentiful Black Collars worked most effectively on the young. It was by the emperor’s wisdom, then, that a full battalion of Overseers accompanied the campaign, to manage the use of the Black Collars in breaking in the higher-leveled slaves they’d captured. Selunj existed outside Calvin’s command, reporting directly to the Imperial Throne, and his insistence on earlier attempts to seize the caravan and the pair of Worldwalkers leading it had led to disastrous failures, the blame for which passed easily to Calvin.

  He considered his words carefully before answering. Everything he said, he knew, would eventually reach the emperor’s ears. “If everything goes to plan, we’ll have them no less than a bell past noon. Southbridge and Ferrytown are ours, and his scouts know it. So he’s turned north.”

  “What is he trying to do?” Selunj asked. The man stared at the map as if it were a beast ready to bite. The overseers were best left to their grim work, and not sent on campaign, as far as Calvin was concerned. Preferably out of range of my own hearing, thought the imperial prince.

  “The only thing he can do,” the commander answered. “He has to have maps, probably better ones than we do. The next nearest crossing of the River Weldt is a fjord nine days to the north. There’s a bridge at the border between Weldtir and Forvale, but that’s another week’s march away. He’s out of time, now that we’ve brought the Gendarmes to bear. We’ll carve his caravan to pieces if he tries for either.”

  Calvin looked down at the map once more. Something had been tickling the back of his mind for several days, a nervousness he couldn’t shake. The otherworlder leading the refugees had made few mistakes over the summer, avoiding larger forces and ruthlessly crushing weaker groups too slow to evade his lancers. “I don’t understand,” he said after a few moments, running a hand over his shaven head. “The man is obviously a military veteran from his own world. His best option would have been to make for one of the bridges, but it’s too late for that now that we’re this close on his tail.”

  “Explain,” said the excruciator.

  “We don’t have cavalry. The empire has always relied on the beast born as our heavy troops. They’re extremely effective in the jungles and forests of the homeland, but for holding a position, they are fou
nd lacking, except for Ursaran or Ma’akan. My father sent no bears or badgers to build or dig, and the wolfmen we do have aren’t suited to either.”

  He tapped a finger over the illustrated bridge where a tiny Imperial flag had been pinned. “We hold Southbridge, but it has no walls. He could break our lines there, even if it would cost him half his horse or more. Once the wagons crossed the bridge, we’d be right back to chasing him. Why did he turn north? There has to be another reason beyond the fact that it’s his least bad option.” The map held no answers for Calvin, and the silence between himself and the excruciator grew thick and uncomfortable until a scout was ushered into the tent.

  The scout knelt before Calvin, then stood with a nod to the excruciator. “Sir! They’ve stopped at the top of a slope and seem to be digging fortifications.”

  Excruciator Selunj gave a crooked smile. “So he’s realized there’s no escape?”

  “Possibly, sirs. A smaller group of riders led by one who appears similar to descriptions of The General’s Wife split off from the main force to continue north.”

  Calvin looked once more at the map. “All my instincts say it must be a trap, but…”

  “The opportunity must not be ignored,” the excruciator finished in his stead. “I shall ride with a small detachment of Gendarmes to see to the woman personally. The emperor would have both our heads if we simply let a Worldwalker ride away.”

  The commander did his best to ignore the visceral glee that dripped from the other man’s voice as he turned to issue orders to his aide. “The Gendarmes are to advance, Hoplites to the flanks, but they are to hold back until their line is broken.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance out of the clear sky as they exited the command tent. Calvin looked up, but saw no clouds. “Strange weather,” he said with apprehension, “but we do what we must. You have your orders.”