The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “You have no command structure?” he prompted.

  “We don't normally need it. Just grades of Enforcer.”

  “And you wish to take over as interim governor—military governor of Bahlaer?”

  “The Regency has given the go-ahead. We just can't wrangle this many people.”

  “You do not organize them personally. You set them up to organize themselves.” Without thought, he cleared the board of all stones, then started setting them up on the crosshatch like a chain of command. “Black for Shadow agents, white for civilians,” he said, placing double black stones above each cluster of whites. “Or Trifolders, militiamen, whomever you trust to expand your command network. One of theirs, one of yours. In the army, our most basic unit is the team, with four to five men plus a corporal, then above that a sergeant who watches over two teams—a section—and who answers to a lieutenant who is responsible for five sections. A platoon. Above that, someone like me: two hundred subordinates.”

  “You think we need one agent for every four or five civvies? That's ten thousand of us.”

  He shook his head and adjusted the pieces. “You will have families involved, which makes four-man teams impractical. I think you want rough platoons. Four or five ten-person civilian sections, each run by the head of a family, who answer to Shadow or militia or Trifold lieutenants. A Shadow captain over those—no, a major. They aren't combat platoons, so one higher officer should be enough to track ten of them.” He did a bit of mental math, then frowned. “How many of your agents can you field?”

  “Two hundred, maybe three.”

  “Civilian lieutenants, then, and a Shadow major with a militia or Trifold aide. One hundred of each, then twenty-five colonels with aides to coordinate them. Five each answering to five division commanders, answering to you.”

  Enforcer Ardent stared down at the pieces. “That's half of my staff. Pikes, we spread so thin so fast.”

  “Do you have any absolutely safe places?”

  “Some of the goblin caverns. Some of these underground complexes.”

  “Then you could try to fit as many people as comfortable into them, and replace their Shadow agents with other officers. But you want at least one Shadow with them to maintain communications, supply chain, command structure. I imagine you want enough flexibility to be able to pull the civilians out on short notice, like with the crush?”

  “Yes. It would take about twenty of us to clear out two hundred fast enough to avoid that shit.”

  “So two or three reserved teams of twenty each.”

  “Could their mages hit us at more than one location?”

  “No doubt. Which means mage-spotting sentries stationed topside of any safe-haven.” He picked up a white stone and set it by the black at the head of the hierarchy. “I won't break up my company. Not completely. But we will support you.”

  She sat forward. “We're not asking for that. We want you to contain the Seethers—“

  “Which we are doing, yes, but it compounds the problem. Any captured soldiers become 'civilians' to be guarded, and Field Marshal Rackmar commands thousands upon thousands of them. If he notices our work and sends more, and we try to imprison them all, we will burst this city at its seams.”

  “Can we take the fight to him?”

  Sarovy blinked. “What, to the Kanrodi siege-camp?”

  “Right. Greymark's already heading that way to organize the harvest-men, and we have some spies inside—though we haven't heard from them in a while. Can't access the shadows from within a warded space. It seems like the real issue should be less capturing and containing them, and more convincing them to side with us.”

  “A difficult task.”

  “Is it? We convinced you.”

  Sarovy eyed her and she stared right back, direct as ever. He couldn't deny that her bluntness drew him, along with the casual physical confidence that had her walking a game-stone across her knuckles and fingers. Her legs were loosely crossed, the line of a dagger visible along her calf, the change of texture from boot-leather to black fabric the only variance in her midnight attire.

  He shouldn't be looking. Before him on the desk was his letter to Irsa: partner, wife, widow. Loyalty was the backbone of his nature, of his whole people.

  But that was a lie. That was the trap that had kept him silent and pining for more than a decade. It was what had cut off his questions about his old letters, his orders, his objections to both the Crown Prince and the Field Marshal. It had kept him ignorant to his own suffering and that of his men, his prisoners, the people of Bahlaer.

  He'd been used and cast off by the Empire he'd trusted to purify and redeem him. It seemed now that there had never been anything to be redeemed of.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “perhaps we can turn them. Make them ours. I know a few officers who won't have appreciated the Field Marshal's changes. Can we locate them, send messages?”

  Enforcer Ardent sat forward to place her stone back on the board. “Maybe. We can't get in directly, and reports indicate that they're not taking deliveries from merchants anymore, so we can't go through their supply-chain. Probably bringing everything in through portals.”

  “No one steps beyond the barriers?”

  “A few. The forces they have holding the siege line on Kanrodi. The forces they send here.”

  “Perhaps we can play catch-and-release with a few Seethers, then. ...Except that they would be debriefed upon return, no doubt by mentalists.”

  Ardent grimaced. “So that would be sending them to their deaths, if they'd turned to us. Don't suppose you have anyone a mentalist can't read?”

  “From what I know, all humans and specialists can be read, though to varying degrees of depth. But between Magus Voorkei and Scryer Yrsian, perhaps they can build protections.”

  Head tilted, Ardent considered it. “We're not much for magic, so I'll have to trust you on that. But be sure of it, please. I won't throw agents into a grinder. Not yours, not mine, not Seethers. How are they doing, by the way?”

  “Overcrowded in the cells. We've started bunking some with the platoons—Averognans and Darronwayn mostly, and a few Riddishfolk. Trying to sway them to our side through cultural ties. Tricky with the Riddish, though. We have a mix of clans that just barely get along; throwing in newcomers from other clans has already caused fistfights.”

  Ardent made a face. “I confess your internal politics are a mystery to me.”

  “I'm not surprised. Your people are well-blended, yes? In the east, we kept to our own territories, mixing only rarely until the Emperor forced us. Even now, my people and the Riddish do our best not to interact with each other. My—“ He caught himself on the edge of a personal confession, considered, then stated it anyway: “My wife and I were one of the marriages arranged to combine our peoples. We worked, but it did not. We are a fractious lot.”

  “No kidding. You know, we can take your troublemakers.”

  He frowned. “Where?”

  “We've got thousands of small facilities scattered through the west and south. Most could easily absorb a man or two and retrain them for our work. We always need sun-side Enforcers.”

  “Far from their homes, among foreign peoples?”

  “We'll teach them the language. We have a lot of translators. And if nothing else works, we could retire them to the coast.”

  “A euphemism?”

  “No, actual coastal villages. They can learn to fish.”

  “Not in this weather,” he said, but his mouth quirked upward. He missed fishing. “I thought your personnel and space were limited.”

  “Not in all ways. There are only so many shadowwalkers, but plenty of unbloods holding down drop-points and warehouses and harvest camps. As for space… These people don't want to leave, you know? Bahlaer is their home. So unless we're forced to, we won't relocate them outside it. Hjaltar could absorb them, probably, but that just transplants the crisis.”

  “Hjaltar, I'm not aware of...”

  “O
ther side of the Varaku Range, west of the Wrecking Shore. They used to trade up the coast with your people. I suppose that was a long time ago.”

  He blinked, then shook his head. “Regardless. I'll have to discuss the prisoner issue with my lieutenants, but integration-or-exile may be necessary until we get the situation in hand. For now...if you have a separate detention area we could put the unreasonable Seethers in, that would be appreciated. And Rallant,” he added as an afterthought. “I can't cater to Linciard's attachment if it means having Tanvolthene constantly tweaking the soundproofing. He has better things to do. Isolate Rallant enough and he won't need a ward.”

  “Sure, I know a spot.”

  “As for contacting the Crimson camp… The only option I can think of is seeding some site with information and letting the Seethers bring it back to Old Crown, but I can't imagine they won't be mindwashed of it. Perhaps Scryer Yrsian has a better idea.”

  “Still, give me a list of people you'd want contacted in case we breach the camp.”

  He nodded, thinking of his previous captain—then froze, hand halfway to the quill. Though the man's broad Wyndish face was clear in his mind, the name escaped him.

  It had been less than a month since they were last in contact. How could he lose it so quickly? He could see it just below the surface, like something sinking into a well. It started with T. Tonner? No, that was the dead garrison commander. Talpert? One of his archers. Tycaid, no, he was Jernizen. It was a Wyndish name, it went like—

  “Terrant. Terrant,” he said firmly. “Captain Terrant.”

  Then he remembered the Enforcer's presence, and looked up to find her on her feet and staring at him, brows curved down in concern. “You went a bit grey,” she said, and it was all he could do not to reach up and touch his face.

  “Fine, I'm fine.”

  “I know about the crack in the crystal.”

  The words dried on his tongue. He looked down at the piles of scrolls and the overturned letter, and for a moment couldn't remember what they were about, who they were written to. The voices rose like storm-surge, speaking nonsense.

  Go away, he told them. I'm busy.

  To his relief, they obeyed, and after a long shivery moment, he managed to draw a breath. “Do you.” It came out as a rasp, no better than when he'd first pulled on the medallion.

  “There's no shame in what you are,” she said, “nor what you're going through. I know you're a private person, but you need to remember your position. Your men rely on you, and I value your input. Talk to Mako—before I do.

  “Now I need to see about these civilian rearrangements, and you need to get out there and direct your men. Want me to take those scrolls for you?”

  He glanced to them again. She was right; he'd been absorbing himself in the business of the dead when there were still living soldiers to tend to. “Send these,” he said of the ribboned scrolls, “and take the unprepared ones to Sergeant Benson, if you would. He can manage them.”

  “And yours?”

  His hand fell to Irsa's letter, all sixteen incomplete pages of it. “I… No,” he said. “I don't know if I will send it.”

  Her brows rose, but she didn't ask, just took up the pile of notices and stacked the scrolls atop them. “I'll see you at the next Seether debrief,” she said as she balanced the last. At his word of assent, she turned and let herself out.

  Watching the door swing shut in her wake, he felt a strange sense of loss. He looked down at the pages beneath his fingers, stippled with hesitation and omission, dancing ever around the plain truth of his experience. There was so much to say, but after so long, he didn't know how.

  *****

  Linciard was up again.

  He didn't mind it. In fact, he was starting to like the missions. They took his attention off their situation and let him focus on tactics, teamwork, measurable actions. He'd been on all of the first three runs and now, prepping for the fourth, he could look over his group and judge who would handle the Shadow Realm well and who was already considering dropping out.

  “So you're back,” said Ticuo, his opposite number among the Enforcers. They'd done two of the three missions together, but he'd been off last time. Now the other Shadow lieutenant, Zhahri, was absent, with another female Enforcer in her place.

  “What can I say? Can't get enough of your friendly face.”

  Ticuo snorted. He was a dour fellow—understandable, since he came from Bahlaer—with the typical look of an Illanite: rounded features, stout shape, dark tan. Similar to an Amand, though you couldn't say that to either group without starting a fight. Shadowmarks underwrote his eyes as if he hadn't slept in months. “Aren't you ever off-duty?”

  “Why? Looking for a date?” Linciard bit his tongue the moment the words were out. It was like having Vyslin speak through him, sass-mouthed no matter the occasion. Sudden guilt smacked him broadside; he hadn't thought of his ex in days, and it hurt to consider what might have happened to him.

  Instead of the expected hostility, Ticuo said, “You doing all right? Maybe you need a break.”

  “I've had plenty of breaks. Four runs in two days is easy.”

  “Maybe skip the next one.”

  Linciard grunted. He didn't want to argue it, but neither did he plan to stay behind. He had a purpose here, easing the newbies' transition into Shadow-type missions by helping them with the unfamiliar gear and tactics. It was nice to use his brain for something beside worrying. He wasn't tired.

  Behind him, Blaze soldiers and Shadow Folk occupied the tables at a four-to-one ratio, playing cards or dice-games. There hadn't been much trouble, everyone walking on eggshells, but he felt the tension in the room rise palpably every time a team lined up for the assault. Admit it or not, they were all a little afraid: of each other, of the situation, of the world above.

  Time would burnish the edges from this, as long as no one panicked.

  “Don't want to let the shadows get too familiar with you,” said Ticuo. “They might remember what you've done.”

  Linciard froze in mid-buckle, mind tripping into a dark place. Winter-clad trees all around, Gold-tabarded figures preceding him, small footprints in the snow… “What are you talking about?”

  “The attacks you made on us. The destruction of the Shadowland.”

  Though Ticuo's voice was level, his words drew the attention of the other mission-preppers, Blaze and Shadow both. Keeping his tone just as low, Linciard said, “That wasn't us. I thought we'd made that clear. It was the Field Marshal and his mages, his White Flames.”

  “But you were there.”

  “I was. These guys?” He nodded to his fellow Blazes, none of them lancers. “No. They were still marching. Likely weren't even in the city yet. Look, if you have a problem—“

  “I'm just saying, it's not good for you to pass through the Realm too often.”

  Linciard doubted that, but with nothing to go on but Ticuo's flat expression, he couldn't afford to cause a fuss. Maybe it's me being too sensitive. Not his fault he poked an old wound. But pikes, they know we didn't crush the Shadowland.

  Calm, Erolan. Confidence. It'll be rough for a while yet. Just give it time.

  The signal came to cross over, the shadows behind the folding screens deepening into doorways. Bracing himself, Linciard went first; he had to set a good example. Darkness hissed and shivered around him, and then he was through the umbral wall and onto the tacky-textured road, the great spindle of the realm-center hanging small in the smoky orange distance.

  Everyone came through all right, though with some chokes and some wild-eyed shaking. He knew by now that the traverse would even them out; running seemed to reset something in a soldier's head, putting them back in the training yard under the protective eye of their commander. He didn't know if he could handle this place at a walk, but at a loping run, sure.

  Up front, one of the Shadows navigated. The rest brought up the rear. It wasn't far, though it surely felt like forever to the newbies. Soon enough, they
came in sight of the swarming black bubbles, and then passed through.

  The usual crew waited inside: armored-up Enforcers, some of whom he recognized, plus the stripe-gloved signalers and the spike-covered individuals he'd only noticed last time, who stood half-melded with the rearward walls and seemed to be maintaining the bubbles' integrity. Lanterns cast their eye-shaped lights throughout the space, while beyond the far wall and through the ceiling stretched the view of some unknown interior.

  Zhahri's replacement, a brisk Illanic woman, gave the rundown. Fifteen enemy soldiers, two of whom the eiyets had identified as specialists. No mages. Altered rules: to catch and release at least one man who would spread their information, preferably a Darronwayn or Averognan. Linciard had several of each with him to aid in the convincing, and quick-made charms from Scryer Mako to hopefully defend the men's minds during Crimson debrief.

  The building itself was a Shadow warehouse, the specialists a pair of scouts who had checked it out beforehand. “They don't know we can see them from this side,” the Illanic woman said. “Once we cross over, though, they become hard to track, so we'll be putting several of you on them directly.”

  For the rest of them, it would be a lot of hit-and-run work in the gloom of the supply-heavy shelves. Linciard was getting used to that.

  As he led his nervous men toward the hiss of the shadow-wall, he told himself he knew what to do.

  *****

  Enforcer Ticuo watched through the shadows as lanterns jerked and truncheons rose and fell. He imagined having Enforcer Ardent's mastery over the eiyets—of reaching out and crushing all those struggling forms between the jaws of the Dark.

  “Is it wise?” said his comrade at his shoulder.

  He grimaced. Of course it wasn't. But it was necessary. The lieutenant had confessed.

  When he closed his eyes, he could see the walls of red light, the smoke roiling thick within their encasement. He could feel the crossbow in his hands, no use against the mages in the streets with their protective shells. Could hear the bricks cracking in the heat.

  He'd been playing watchman over a warehouse just like this when the word came of the Shadowland. By the time he'd gotten there, it had already been too late.