by Rachel Aaron
Heart pounding at how close she’d come to a very messy and stupid death, Rosalie eased back on the loose triggers to lower herself the rest of the way to the ground. She fell with a thump into the tall grass at the wall’s base, looking around for any sign of danger, but saw nothing. Now that she was down in it, the Maria side of the wall was even more hauntingly empty than it looked from above. Even the sounds of the city were gone, leaving only the soft rustle of dead leaves.
And the distant boom of giant footsteps.
Rosalie’s heart slowed to a crawl as she scanned the empty fields for the source of the sound. When she found it, she let out a small breath. There was a titan out there, a behemoth shape almost a kilometer away. If it came closer, though…
Rosalie set her jaw. If it came closer, she’d kill it. Killing a titan on her very first day would show her father how wrong he’d been, and it would certainly shut Jax up. For now, the titan wasn’t even facing her direction, so Rosalie triggered her metal cables to dislodge the anchor hooks from the wall.
The dented control handles worked if she applied enough pressure, so she kept squeezing until both cables retracted and were safely in place, coiled in the cases that hung at her waist. With everything ready to fire again should she need to make a quick escape, Rosalie dropped into a crouch, keeping her eyes on the distant titan as she crawled through the knee-high grass to the bushes where she’d last seen her canister.
Even with their leaves shed for winter, the brambles were a tangled knot. Rosalie could barely wedge her arm through the thorny branches, and she certainly couldn’t do it while holding her maneuvering gear handles. She slid them back in their shoulder holsters and tried again, pressing her shoulder into the undergrowth as she wiggled her hand through birds’ nests and spiderwebs until, at last, her fingers closed around the cold metal cylinder of her gas canister.
She almost cried in relief. It was too quiet on this side of the wall. There was no sound, no movement. Just the fall of titan feet rumbling like distant thunder, making her hands shake as she struggled to fit the canister back into the harness on top of her blade sheath.
When the cylinder finally slid into place, Rosalie grabbed her control handles and whirled, squeezing both triggers to fire her hooks and haul herself back over the wall, but the cables didn’t fire. Cursing the idiot who’d let the Garrison assign such deteriorated gear, Rosalie squeezed harder, gripping the triggers until her knuckles were white. This time, though, the extra pressure did nothing. She was banging the control handles together in an attempt to jostle whatever had broken back into place when a gust of hot wind brushed the top of her head.
Wind that smelled of rotting meat.
Rosalie froze. She didn’t turn around, didn’t lower her handles, didn’t dare breathe as her eyes slid up to see the titan standing directly above her. Not the one in the distance. This titan was much bigger, and it was here, looking down at her from at least fifteen meters up with brown, childlike eyes and a drooling smile that showed off every single one of its flat, bloodstained teeth. It had a beard as well, the matted hair dangling so close over Rosalie’s head that the flakes of dried blood falling from it landed on her face.
The feather-light brush set her body shaking uncontrollably. It was the titan from this morning. The one she’d seen at the Red Line, only now she wasn’t out of its reach. She was on the ground, practically standing between its feet, standing and staring while the titan’s smile grew wider, its empty eyes shining in delight as it reached down to grab her.
It wasn’t until those giant hands were close enough and she could see the dried blood under the paving-stone-sized fingernails that Rosalie’s training finally beat through her terror. Her body moved before she could think, diving between the titan’s legs. When she reached the other side, she slammed the handles of her maneuvering gear into the sheaths hanging from her waist.
Fortunately, this equipment did work. Thanks to Emmett’s tinkering, the locks clicked exactly as they were supposed to, and when she raised her arms, the handles were equipped with two hardened steel blades, the straight edges gleaming as she whirled around to face the titan.
To do what, Rosalie wasn’t sure. She’d managed to pull her swords, but now that they were out, the blades in her hands looked dull as butter knives, and her triggers still weren’t working. She couldn’t fire hooks into the titan and haul herself up its body to slash the weak spot on the back of its neck, as she’d been trained to do. With blades this useless, Rosalie wasn’t sure she could cut the thing at all.
Fear came roaring back. She was trapped on the ground outside the walls with maneuver gear that wouldn’t fire and swords that couldn’t cut. She could try running, but a titan this big could travel farther in one step than she could in twenty, and she had nowhere to run. There was no cover in the open field, no trees to climb or buildings to hide in. Just the wall she couldn’t climb, and the titan she couldn’t kill.
With heart pounding, Rosalie rolled away, rising in a defensive position. It seemed impossible that things had gone so bad so quickly. Already, the titan was reaching for her again, its face distorted with a glutton’s smile.
Rosalie’s legs shook so badly, she couldn’t even run.
The next time Lieutenant Brigitte made a recruit step up to the Red Line, it would be Rosalie’s severed foot stuck in the monster’s beard.
Struggling not to cry, Rosalie braced her swords so she could at least scratch the creature before it ate her.
A shadow flashed over her head so fast that Rosalie couldn’t look up to see what it was. A heartbeat later, the bearded titan’s head jerked back as if yanked by a string. That was the only warning Rosalie got before a splash of scalding liquid hit her, leaving her vision bright red. She’d been splattered with the titan’s burning blood, she realized as she staggered backward. That was all she managed to process before the titan fell on its face in the grass beside her, the back of its neck sliced open in two perfect, precise cuts.
Rosalie hit the ground next. Her legs gave out, dropping her to the bloody grass beside the titan’s motionless body, which was starting to steam. She was staring at it in horrified wonder when the shadow fell over her again.
“Get up.”
Rosalie lifted her head to see Jax looming above her, his swords dripping with the titan’s smoking scarlet blood.
“Are you deaf?” he snarled when she didn’t move. “I don’t see any limbs missing, so get up.”
With a shuddering breath, Rosalie pushed herself to her feet. When she was standing, Jax turned back to the wall. “I assume you know how to climb up as well as down?”
“I…I do,” Rosalie said, her voice shaking horribly. “But my…my gear. It won’t, it’s not…” She stopped, frustrated and mortified. Her mouth wouldn’t make the words. She couldn’t force herself to be better. Couldn’t do anything.
Jax shook his head with an angry huff. “Come on,” he said, moving to her side. His arm snaked around Rosalie’s waist, yanking her toward him as he turned them both to the wall. “Hold on tight,” he ordered. “We don’t have time to do this twice.”
Before Rosalie could ask what they were doing, Jax fired the left hook of his maneuvering gear into the wall. The moment the metal barb stuck in the stone, he hit his trigger and reeled them up at blinding speed. When they got close to his first hook, Jax fired from his right hip, hitting a spot near the top with his other line. After that, it was all a blur until he dumped her unceremoniously on the stone at the top of the wall.
She fell in a heap, smacking her head painfully on the rails behind the cannon. Willow was at her side at once, squeezing her limbs and asking questions in a serious medic voice that Rosalie’s ears were ringing too loudly to make sense of. All she could do was lie there and shake, staring dumbly at Jax as he took a cloth from his pocket and began casually cleaning his blades. When the twin lengths of razor-sharp steel were spotless, he shoved them ba
ck into their sheaths and turned away, walking down the wall toward the base without so much as a look over his shoulder to see if his squad would follow.
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Thanks to Jax’s angry, silent walking, they made it back to the gate a full half hour before the dinner bell. Rosalie was braced for a dressing down, but to everyone’s surprise, Jax said he was letting them off early.
It was a welcome relief. Rosalie’s body ached from scalp to toes, and her stomach was so empty it felt like it was caving in. She should have gone straight to the lieutenant to report Jax, but that would have been a sorry thing to do to the man who’d saved her life, even if he was the one who’d endangered it in the first place. Rosalie was just happy she’d finally stopped shaking. She was following the others toward the stairs when Jax called after her.
“Oy, rich girl.”
Suppressing a long sigh, Rosalie turned around to find him glaring at her. “You need to get that fixed,” he said, nodding at the maneuvering gear under her arms. “Hit the quartermaster before dinner and tell him I said to give you new gear. Blades, too, ’cause yours are less than useless. And while you’re down there, get yourself a uniform that doesn’t look like a costume.”
Rosalie blinked at him. “Does this mean you’re not kicking me out of your squad?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Jax snapped. “Squad equipment is the sergeant’s responsibility, and I ain’t about to get docked pay because you were stupid enough to accept broken gear. Now get to the armory and get it fixed. Same goes for the rest of you.” He glared at Willow and Emmett. “If anything’s broken, take this time to get it unbroken. Report back here at dawn tomorrow fixed up and ready to work, or find yourself another job. Dismissed.”
He fired his maneuvering gear as he finished, shooting the hooks into the edge of the wall and swinging down to the stone yard fifty meters below.
Willow rolled her eyes. “What’s his hurry?”
“Probably has to give his report,” Emmett said with a shrug. “He killed a titan. I’m pretty sure there’s paperwork for that.”
“Then he should take the stairs like a normal person,” Willow huffed. “I think he’s just showing off.”
“He’s doing a good job,” Rosalie muttered as she jealously watched Jax’s perfect landing. She couldn’t manage a landing like that from a straight fifty-meter jump even with working gear.
“I’m going to turn this garbage in,” she said, smacking her useless control handles.
“You should eat first,” Emmett said authoritatively. “You can go to the quartermaster any time, but first in line for dinner is a rare event.”
Rosalie’s stomach growled loudly at the mention of dinner. “What are we having?”
“The board said bread, ham, and cream soup,” Willow replied. “The bread’s likely gritty, and the ham’s probably turned, but no one can mess up cream soup.”
Gritty bread and questionable ham fit Rosalie’s low expectations for Garrison cooking, but cream soup didn’t sound too bad. “What’s in it? Besides cream?”
Willow laughed. “There’s no cream in cream soup, idiot! It’s called that because the potatoes make it white. Honestly, can you imagine how much it would cost to feed cream to this many soldiers? I can’t even remember the last time I had milk.”
“I can,” Emmett said happily. “Your tenth birthday. Your Gran served it with your cake.”
“That’s right,” Willow said, her face wistful. “It was such a good cake.”
“We should go get in line,” Emmett said excitedly. “If we get first choice, maybe we can get a slice of ham that isn’t too green yet!”
He hurried down the stairs with Willow close on his heels. Rosalie followed more slowly, shaking her head in bewilderment. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had made her as excited as her squadmates were about a chance to eat unspoiled pork and deceptively named potato soup. She didn’t want to be a killjoy, though, so when the three of them reached the bottom of the gate tower, Rosalie told Emmett and Willow to go ahead without her.
“Are you sure?” Emmett asked. “This might be the only time ever we’re first in line.”
“I really want to take care of my gear problem,” Rosalie said. “I’ll catch up.”
Willow shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t blame us if there’s nothing left. Come on, Emmett.”
Given the choices, Rosalie didn’t care if she never ate again. This time, though, she kept her opinion to herself, waving farewell to her squadmates as she walked toward the armory.
* * *
Like most Garrison bases, including the one near her home, the Trost Gate base was arranged in a defensive square. A protected stone corridor connected the base to the gate and its towers, but the heart of the fortress was a paved yard surrounded by four long, stone-and-wood buildings. At Trost, these were the mess hall, two barracks, and the armory, a three-story warehouse built right up against the wall itself.
Unlike her father’s Military Police stockpiles, which were shrines to rifles and artillery, the Garrison’s armory was almost entirely dedicated to maneuver gear. There were cannon supplies and a truly impressive cache of ammunition up in the loft, but the main floor was devoted to vertical maneuvering gear and the machines needed to keep it running.
One wall was occupied entirely by the giant air compressors used to fill the gas tanks. Another corner held the sharpening wheels for the blades. The rest of the warehouse was stacked with crates full of spare parts, all of which looked just as battered as Rosalie’s. She didn’t see a single piece of equipment that wasn’t dented, scratched, or damaged in some way. She didn’t see the quartermaster, either, but Rosalie never had any intention of asking for a new set. She simply dumped her broken gear into the bin marked “Scrap.” Her blades were salvageable, so she set them down at the sharpening wheel before making her way to the uniform wall.
Her white Royal Military Academy jacket went straight into the trash, as did the stiff, high-necked dress shirt beneath it. Even if titan blood stains could be removed, Rosalie wanted no reminders of today’s failure. Shivering in her undershirt, Rosalie grabbed a folded set of Garrison standard dress: a sand-colored military jacket, the waist cut high to accommodate the maneuver gear, and durable light-gray trousers that were tailored for moving in battle, not posing in a parade line.
The jacket’s coarse fabric was horribly itchy without a proper field shirt underneath, but at least now she looked like a real Garrison soldier. She was hurrying out of the armory to find her luggage—which included what might well be the only properly maintained set of vertical maneuvering gear in all of Trost—when she turned a corner and walked face first into Captain Woermann.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, dropping into an automatic curtsy despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing a dress. The captain didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. In fact he looked even more flustered than she was as he dropped into a low bow.
“Lady Rosalie,” he said, his nasal voice desperate. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for not welcoming you properly. I didn’t know you were in Trost until I received your father’s letter this afternoon. I am dreadfully sorry you were shoved in with the common soldiers. Had I known you were here, I never would have allowed—”
“It’s fine, sir,” she said, cutting him off before he made things any more uncomfortable. “I came on extremely short notice, and I enlisted to be a common soldier, so there’s no need to apologize.”
“But you’re a Dumarque!” Woermann cried, his deep-set eyes scandalized. “The king’s own cousin! I could not possibly permit a lady of your rank to serve on the wall. It would be an insult to your illustrious—”
“It’s fi
ne,” Rosalie said again, more sharply this time. “I’m grateful for your concern, Captain, but serving on the wall is what I came to Trost to do.”
The captain’s scowl deepened. “With respect, my lady, this is no place for someone like you. Our frontline soldiers come from the lowest walks of life. They’re refugees, riff-raff, people for whom the guarantee of a good meal and steady pay is reason enough to risk their lives. Such desperate, dangerous people always resent those of us who are more successful, and I simply couldn’t face your father if something happened to you.”
He sounded deeply concerned, but it was all Rosalie could do not to roll her eyes. Really? Fear of the jealous commoners? That was what he was going with? She’d heard better arguments from her maids when they were trying to get each other in trouble. But ridiculous as this was, it wouldn’t do to be rude to the captain of Trost, so Rosalie plastered on her best fake-sincere smile.
“Thank you so much for your concern,” she said sweetly. “But all of my fellow soldiers have been wonderful so far. A trait which I’m sure is due to your leadership. With you in command, I’m certain I’ll be perfectly fine here in Trost. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day, and I’d like to get to dinner.”
That was probably laying it on too thick, but Rosalie was tired and had no patience for this conversation right now. She was about to finish him with a dazzling smile and make a break for the mess hall when Woermann said, “I hear you’re having trouble with your sergeant.”
Rosalie paused midstep.
“Jackson Cunningham, right?” the captain went on. “He has quite the record. I’ve tried to discharge him several times, but for some reason, Lieutenant Brigitte insists on keeping him around. Of course, if you asked me, that would be a different matter.” He smiled. “I’d be happy to discipline him for you, if you’d like.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything for Lord Dumarque’s daughter.”