The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  In the weeks that followed, thousands took the Director at her word, packing their families and possessions onto carts and wagons and heading west into the continent’s vast interior. Max was not sorry to see them go. With war on the horizon, Rowan would face her greatest challenge; she needed stalwart volunteers, not halfhearted conscripts.

  This very thought occurred to Max very early one February morning as he hurried across the campus. Some hundred yards ahead, a lone wagon was making its way down a cobbled lane toward Rowan’s massive Southgate. Skulking out while everyone’s asleep, Max mused, eyeing a lean man walking alongside the horse. When the wagon passed beneath a streetlamp, the eerie light illuminated a blond and familiar head. Max quickened his pace.

  “Nigel!”

  Halting, Nigel Bristow turned and peered back through the murk. When he saw who it was, Max’s old recruiter smiled and shook him warmly by the hand, standing aside so Max could say hello to Emily Bristow and their toddler, Emma. The pair was sitting in the wagon’s driver’s seat, bundled up against the chill.

  “And where are you off to at such an ungodly hour?” asked Nigel.

  “The Euclidean Fields,” replied Max. “I’ve got my troops training there.”

  “At five in the morning?” exclaimed Emily. “It’s a wonder anyone shows!”

  “Oh, they’ll show,” said Max, smiling. “If not, we’ll start training at four.”

  “From student to slavemaster in a few short years,” quipped Nigel. “And which troops are so unlucky as to have you as a commander? I confess I’m behind on the assignments.”

  “The Trench Rats.”

  Nigel looked puzzled. “But that’s basic infantry,” he said. “Some might say remedial infantry. Surely the Director offered you other options.”

  “She did,” Max admitted. “But I turned them down.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” said Nigel, incredulous.

  “What’s the matter with the Trench Rats, dear?” inquired Emily delicately.

  “Well,” said Nigel, stalling for something politic, “they’re … I suppose one should say …”

  Max put him out of his misery.

  “They’re the dregs,” he stated flatly. “They’re the leftover refugees no other regiments wanted.”

  “Why not?” wondered Emily. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Too old.” Max shrugged. “Too young. Too inexperienced. Too unruly. Take your pick.”

  “Yes, but why are you leading them?” pressed Nigel. “It’s very noble of you, but surely another Agent can teach them to shoot an arrow or hold a pike. Forgive me, but it seems a poor use of Rowan’s finest warrior. I’m surprised Ms. Richter allowed it.”

  Max posed a question of his own. “If I train and fight alongside the Trench Rats, what message does that send to the rest of the refugees?”

  Nigel pondered this before clucking his tongue appreciatively. “Very clever,” he admitted. “Our greatest warrior serves alongside the least, thus improving morale, unity, and discipline throughout the battalions. No wonder I’m not Director.…”

  “You can’t be Director if you leave,” said Max, glancing pointedly at the wagon.

  “I’m not leaving,” sighed Nigel, taking his wife’s hand. “Just the girls. They’re going to live with Emily’s sister in Glenharrow. I’m merely seeing them off.”

  Max had heard of the place, a thriving settlement that was a two-week journey west.

  “But wouldn’t the cliffs be safer?” he suggested, referring to the high series of caves deep within the Sanctuary. “Glenharrow’s far and the roads are getting worse.”

  “I’ve sheltered in those cliffs before,” said Emily stubbornly, her tone suggesting Max had broached a well-worn topic. “If the Enemy scales those walls, there’s no other place to go. I can’t—I won’t—trust my daughter’s life to such a death trap.”

  It was no use arguing. Max would rather defend a strong place, but he could see Emily’s point. Glenharrow and the inland settlements were no threat to Prusias; perhaps they would escape his attention entirely. A bell sounded faintly from Rowan Harbor.

  “We’d best be going,” said Nigel gently. “Other families are waiting for us outside the gate.”

  Nodding, Max leaned into the wagon to hug Emily and pat Emma’s shoe. The child grinned at him, ruddy-cheeked in the cold as her father took up the horse’s reins.

  “Be safe, dear,” said Emily, wiping away a tear.

  “You too.”

  Max watched the Bristows go, the old mare clopping slowly toward the looming walls of Rowan’s Southgate. As they vanished into the mist, he trotted off to meet his troops.

  There was less fog upon the Euclidean Fields, but it was also colder as the wind channeled through breaks in the forest to sweep across the broad, open space. The enchanted grounds had once been used for a unique brand of soccer where matches took place on an undulating pitch whose shifting hills and gullies added new dimensions and challenges to the game. Since the declaration of war, however, Max had claimed and repurposed the fields to capitalize upon its unique properties.

  Spectator stands had been cleared away to accommodate trenches along the perimeter while Monsieur Renard’s beloved turf had been trampled into a muddy morass. The fields no longer bore any resemblance to an elegant array of soccer pitches. With their trenches, barricades, and bonfires, the fields resembled a war zone, and that was just the way Max wanted them.

  There had been three pitches and his troops now covered all of them, twelve hundred men, women, and children standing about in clusters and blowing on their hands. They were a sorry spectacle, a veritable sea of mottled leather and quilted vests holding longbows or spears or whatever else they’d made, salvaged, or stolen on their travels. An unspectacular group, but a willing one. For the most part, they’d done as asked, submitting to orders and doing so with more spirit and energy than Max might have hoped. Thus far, only a score had been dismissed for various acts of fighting, drunkenness, and insubordination.

  A well-ordered mind was required to manage so many people efficiently, and Max knew that his talents did not lie that way. He’d considered asking Miss Boon for assistance, but her time was taken up with analyzing the pinlegs. The more experienced Agents had commands of their own, and, of course, Ms. Richter was busy beyond all comprehension. In the end, Max had turned to Tweedy—a Highlands hare with a sharp brain and sharper tongue who worked in Bacon Library. The gruff hare accepted at once, demanding the title of aide-de-camp, an officer’s commission, and the freedom to organize the battalion’s administration as he saw fit.

  And organize he did. The battalion met three times each day—at dawn, midday, and dusk—for physical exercise, weapons training, and combat simulations. Tweedy ensured there were cooks on hand, an officers’ mess, and a medical tent where a moomenhoven named Chloe tended the innumerable bumps, bruises, and cuts that came from hard training. Throughout the days, Tweedy hurried about with his clipboard, taking note of progress and barking orders to Jack, the scrawny refugee who the hare had designated as a messenger.

  Tweedy was not the only Rowan regular to join the Trench Rats. Sarah, Lucia, and Cynthia had signed up, too. Sarah took command of an entire company while Lucia and Cynthia served as the battalion’s Mystics. Rolf’s charge, Orion, had also joined, the massive shedu bringing along a pair of centaurs whose skills at archery made them an invaluable resource when it came to teaching those who were ill-suited for hand-to-hand combat.

  The battalion’s greatest asset, however, was Bob.

  He’d reported the very first morning the Trench Rats had assembled, standing at attention with a notched cudgel. As Tweedy took roll, the ogre recited his name and stared dutifully ahead with only the merest twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

  Max was delighted to have him. Bob was not only formidable, but also his steady presence and calm, natural authority did a great deal to settle any arguments or bickering before they flared into outright b
rawls. Of greatest importance, however, was the simple fact that Bob was indeed an ogre. Very few refugees had ever witnessed an ogre’s battle charge and lived to tell the tale. The fact that their battalion boasted a live specimen who gamely demonstrated such horrors was exceedingly valuable. No simulation—not even Lucia’s illusions—could wholly capture the experience of having to hold one’s ground against the onrush of a ten-foot, five-hundred-pound monstrosity. Time and again, Bob would smash through formations of anxious soldiers until they learned to stand as one and level their pikes in unison.

  In all, Max was pleased. The Trench Rats were not the Red Branch and would never be, but he took comfort knowing they were no longer lambs being led to slaughter. They were acquiring discipline and proper technique, and—most importantly—they learned that Rowan valued them. As Max arrived at his command hill, he looked upon faces that had been purged of hostility and skepticism.

  There was one conspicuous exception. Tweedy came bounding up the slope, his whiskers twitching with indignation.

  “Having a comfy snooze, ‘Commander’ McDaniels?”

  “I thought we were on for five o’clock,” said Max, confused.

  “Correct!” chuffed Tweedy, noting something on his clipboard.

  “Then why are you upset? I’m five minutes early.”

  “Are you to be congratulated, then?” exclaimed the hare in his rough burr. “A battalion commander sidling up at the appointed hour like some slack-jawed delinquent. For shame! What kind of example are you setting for your troops, sir? Shall they mimic their commander and dillydally about their duties with casual indifference? Even that Swedish monoglot arrived twenty minutes early!”

  “You’re right,” Max sighed, recognizing the folly of argument or explanation. “It won’t happen again. How would you like to begin?”

  “Humph,” said Tweedy, simmering down and consulting his notes. “I think we should get back to basics. The troops are overly pleased with their progress of late and have taken to boasting. Unbecoming, undeserved, and un—what is it, Mr. Cochran?” The hare whirled on the refugee boy Jack, who promptly froze midstride.

  “Er … begging pardon, but some of the troops are wondering when we’re going to begin. It’s awful cold just to be standing about.”

  Tweedy glared up at Max. “I rest my case!” he cried before turning upon his cringing messenger. “You tell those fidgeting miscreants that they will stand in place all morning until it pleases me to acknowledge them. You tell them—”

  Max shouted a command. Instantly, the troops gave a unified reply and quickstepped into their review formations. It had taken them weeks to stop bumping into one another, but they finally seemed to have it down, Max reflected as he strode down the hill to review them. They stood at rigid attention, forty soldiers to each platoon, pikemen in front and bowmen in back, along with six troops assigned to operate a wheeled ballista that could fire enormous bolts at a rate of two or even three per minute. He stopped before a middle-aged soldier whose pockmarked face was missing an eye.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Sameer,” replied the man, clearing his voice. “Pikeman, right flank.”

  “What’s our turf?”

  “Trench Nineteen.”

  “What’s our job?”

  “To hold the line,” he said fiercely. “Nothing gets past.”

  “Are you the worst pikeman in your unit?”

  “Hell no,” spat Sameer before recovering himself. “I mean, no, sir.”

  “Who is?”

  The question was met with a blank, reluctant expression. The man had no wish to inform on his fellows. When Max repeated the question, however, Sameer relented.

  “It’s Richard,” he said, nodding toward a gangly, reddening youth two spots over. “Sorry, boy, but you know it’s true.”

  Richard nodded glumly but kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “From this day forward, you’re responsible for Richard,” said Max. “It’s your job to help him get better. Is that understood? By week’s end, Richard will lead a demonstration with Bob.”

  Richard looked ill.

  Max turned to Tweedy. “Have the commander of each unit submit a list ranking their troops by midday.”

  Tweedy made a note and Max continued his inspection, finishing with the Rowan specialists who were not assigned to any one unit. These included his former classmates, Bob, Orion, and the centaurs, along with Umbra. The refugee girl stood apart from the rest, leaning upon her formidable spear and staring at Max.

  “Umbra, I want you to focus on training the best troops from each of the commander’s lists. They’ll be responsible for working with the next four and so on. Is that understood?”

  She nodded.

  “Lucia and Cynthia, can you spend the morning working on a simulation for tonight? Ideally, there will be a surprise or two. I want to see if they can stay calm and maintain discipline in a crisis. Got it?”

  The girls looked knowingly at one another. Lucia flashed a wicked smile.

  “I take it that’s a yes,” said Max. “Unless there are questions, we’ll have Sarah and Ajax lead the conditioning.”

  Max stepped aside as Sarah and the refugee leader took command and started barking orders at the troops. There was a stamp and clash, the clink of mail and the thump of boots as the units fell into single-file lines and began to jog about the field’s perimeter. Max and Umbra joined the last, trotting behind the gasping pikemen even as the enchanted terrain began to shift beneath their feet, forming deep ditches and wheeze-inducing hills.

  He could not help but glance at Umbra as they ran alongside one another. The girl remained a mystery. She was often the first to the fields and the last to leave, but she rarely spoke or consorted with the other soldiers unless absolutely necessary. Even Ajax—ever haughty and irreverent—treaded carefully around her. It was not just Umbra’s skill that checked him, but her air of simmering, watchful intensity. She forever reminded Max of a viper, coiled and poised to strike.

  “Where are you from?” he asked, quickening his pace at Sarah’s whistle.

  “Far.”

  “Ajax says you fell in with them as they came down the coast.”

  She nodded, breathing easily as they climbed a steep hill.

  “Where did you learn how to fight?”

  “Here and there,” she muttered, shifting her spear to the other hand.

  “Why’d you choose the Trench Rats?” Max wondered. “I heard the Vanguard offered you a place.”

  “I’m not here for the Vanguard.”

  “What are you here for, then?” asked Max with a laugh.

  “You.”

  A chill raced down Max’s spine. Umbra did not look at him when she said it; she stared stoically ahead, running with a doe’s effortless grace. He let her go on without him, falling back and watching the troops clamber up a hundred-foot rise while Sarah and Ajax barked encouragement.

  What on earth did Umbra mean that she was here for him? The word and its strange delivery had so many possible interpretations. Had she joined the Trench Rats because of Max’s formidable reputation? Had she enlisted because he might have something to teach her? Did the word imply some sort of threat or was it just the opposite—the awkward admission of a crush?

  By midafternoon, this last possibility seemed absurd and Max reddened at his vanity. If their conversation had embarrassed Umbra, she gave no indication. While the troops rested and ate with their units, Umbra sat alone beneath a tree, sharpening her spear and glancing occasionally at Max as he collected the lieutenants’ lists. There was nothing shy, friendly, or even familiar about the way she looked at him; he simply seemed to be an object of ongoing curiosity.

  Putting her out of his mind, Max was enduring another Tweedy harangue about those running the armories and storerooms (“Base thieves and charlatans!”) when he happened to pass Tam, Kat, and the other refugees who had confronted him when he’d returned to Rowan the previous fall. The group was huddled
around one of the many firepits, resting before weapons training and eating hot porridge and bread. They looked absurdly young sitting there with their round faces and eager expressions as one girl regaled the group with an amusing story. Their weapons were strewn about them like discarded toys—bows, quivers, a long knife, and a dozen pikes along with Tam’s prized sword. Catching sight of Max, Tam nearly choked out her porridge and stood at attention.

  “At ease,” said Max, motioning for her to be seated. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  Reddening, the girl wiped porridge from her chin and nodded. “Pretty good,” she said. “The running’s hard and we’re nervous ’bout tonight’s simulation, but no complaints. You ain’t giving out any hints, are you?”

  “I don’t know what it will be myself,” said Max. “But if you stick to your training, you should be able to handle it. What should you do if it’s vyes?”

  “Assume a spread formation to protect our archers.”

  “What about ogres?”

  “Wedge formation to resist a charge, and the archers should use fire arrows.”

  “And what about demons or deathknights?”

  “Zenuvian iron treated with Blood Petals,” she replied. “But each archer only has three of those.”

  “Then I guess they’d better hit the mark,” said Max.

  The girl nodded and picked absently at a scab. “You really think we got a chance when Prusias comes?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “I heard his army’s huge,” put in Kat. “I heard he’s got a secret weapon!”

  “His army is big,” conceded Max, “but don’t assume he’s going to send the whole thing. It’s not easy to move an army, and Prusias’s kingdom is all the way across the sea. And don’t forget that his weapons aren’t so secret anymore. We’ve got some very smart people studying them right now, not to mention a hundred other battalions that are training just as hard as we are. Everyone at Rowan these days has chosen to be here, chosen to fight. I like our odds.”