The marks were old and faded, barely more than faint smears on the wall, but they were definitely laid there by human hands, their patterns geometric and unnatural. One was a tight spiral, its end trailing off into several short, straight lines in a circle that reminded Marta of a starburst. The other appeared the approximation of a human, the body and limbs made up only of lines. The head of the drawing resembled that of a beast, the marks too faded to say for sure, though Marta suspected it was a bear.
Underneath the marks a half-dozen clay pots resided, their sides bearing the same illustrations as the wall. Remains of plants, perhaps flowers, littered the space around them. Marta looked to Isabelle for explanation as to their meaning, but the half-Ingios woman simply shrugged, not bothering to tap her chest and forehead at the sight.
Caddie never looked at either the paintings or the pots, her eyes aimed only at the continuing maze of caverns. Marta released her hand, the girl leading them farther into the dark.
***
It was not light that signaled their journey’s end, rather a slight shift in the rich scent of water. The air suddenly smelled sweeter as they stumbled out the mouth of the cave, the twinkle of fading stars awaiting them. Waterlogged and weary beyond measure, they exited, Caddie suddenly falling still as a statue soon as they passed the threshold into the shallow pond.
Isabelle pushed pass them, Luca at her side as they slogged their way for the bank. The woman instantly flopped down upon the dry earth, extending her arms and legs to let the fresh air wash over her. Though he looked as tired as she, Luca opened his lockblade and shook it free of any lingering water. Producing a small case from his pocket, he removed a soft cloth and vial of oil before sitting down beside Isabelle to clean the knife.
He cared for this weapon, much more so than the straight blade at his hip. It was the one he had cut through the ghuls with, the one he swore ensured he could not be defeated so long as he held it open in his hand. Such imbued objects were rare, more tall tale than truth, but they did exist. And they only came from one source.
Marta was tired, but she still set a new refrain. Her false thoughts focused on killing Isabelle, of driving her Shaper blade deep into the woman’s chest. Intent on this idea, Marta left Caddie where she stood and edged nearer to the unaware woman.
Luca leapt up at once, his lockblade brandished. His action proved what Marta had long believed: He was a Listener who wore no pin. But there was more to his story, and she suspected she knew the plot quite well.
“Ix culla.”
She took Luca entirely aback by the vile and secretive swear. His face first showed he recognized the words then that he realized he had fallen into Marta’s trap. His grin bloomed, reflecting her own grim one, the honed edge of his lockblade shining from the glow of the phantom blade Marta summoned into her hand.
Chapter 19
Marz 13, 563 (Four Years Ago)
Marta and Abner never got their chance to escape, and now she suspected they never would. When they were finally deployed, it was far behind the front line, an entire regiment between them and the freedom of the Eastern armies. There, they were told many things, the most salient being that deserters were killed on sight, and everyone watched the 1st Shaper Company with particular scrutiny.
So far hunger had been their greatest adversary. They were outfitted the same as any Newfield soldier with uniform, greatcoat, and haversack. Weapons they were not allowed, only a dull knife accompanying their mess kit, but when they received their equipment, they were gleefully told by the quartermasters they would not be fed. All their meals they would have to forage since food was reserved for the true soldiers.
Back behind the line of fighting, the land had already been picked over, only the scraps of scraps remaining. Rupert again proved invaluable, showing them where to look and how a bone discarded by another soldier could still provide sustenance in their stew. Somehow he was always able to scrounge some foodstuffs, plopping them in the communal pot the companions from the Pit contributed to and shared. They still went from two meals a day to none, and this lack was slowly killing the 1st Shaper Company.
Kearney ate well though, sharing his meals with Bumgarden in the commander’s tent. He avoided them all now except in the presence of Bumgarden, only leaving the man’s company to retreat to his own tent to sleep. He still had his tobacco though, Marta could smell it on him when he passed, but he wisely did not smoke it before the starving Shapers. Instead he chewed on the pipe when issuing orders they grudgingly obeyed.
Bumgarden might not have discarded Kearney yet, but the Shaper had discarded his former prison wife in May Oles. He had convinced her to join the Western ranks, same as he had with the other prisoners, but now free of his prison, Kearney no longer desired her. Because of her former association with the man, few in the Shaper Company cared for her either. So May was forced to find a new consort to protect her from the other former prisoners, the woman falling into the same role she played in the Pit, though she was now outside its walls. Her time in the prison had marked the woman though, sure as the brand she bore, May unable to shake off its influence any more than the scar.
Finally, Kearney announced the 1st Shapers would face their Covenant kin the next day at Stone Cleaver. The company had been broken into fourteen platoons, each one with a full mobile fortress made up of their shields between them. These Bumgarden divided into two groups of seven, setting one group at each flank of the front line. Marta was glad Abner’s was one of the platoons paired with hers. Though they had not given voice to their plan, both knew once the fighting started they would break rank and escape to the sanctuary of the Covenant forces. And she was also sure the two of them were not the only Eastern Shapers considering this possibility.
The battle was already raging before they were finally called to duty, the barks of musket shots and boom of the cannons surrounding them as they formed up. Holding her hated Newfield flag in the bow of their upturned metal boat, Marta looked back at the Western troops among them. The Shapers and their shields provided protection for the 23rd Saber Company, each man equipped with his eponymous saber. Marta could not hide her disdain at their chosen weapons, the Covenant army preferring to fight in the gauche style with a dagger clasped in their off-hand rather than the single heavier saber favored in the West. Marta knew the Eastern sabermen were more than their match with two weapons to the Westerners’ one. Just like the Weaver over the Render way, the East again proved superior in terms of tactics.
The swordsmen of both sides were still easy targets for the muskets though, their numbers frequently cut down to nothing before they could reach their targets. So she and the rest of the Shapers would supply them safe passage through the hail of musket fire, opening their phalanx and releasing the sabermen only when in the midst of the Covenant ranks.
The strategy was sound and would surely break the Eastern line, especially when coupled with the release of another thirteen Western saber squads farther down the line. Bumgarden had already employed this tactic earlier in the morning to great success, and it stood to reason it would work again. But sweating inside the bunker with the Shapers and nearly fifty sabermen cramped together, Marta felt suddenly apprehensive at the upcoming push.
Finally, Kearney’s voice rang out from far in the rear, signaling the charge. Marta waved her flag, the massive phalanx lurching forward, six more fortresses slowly trudging towards the Eastern musketeers beside them. Her duty was done for now, Gonzalo now leading in the front of the fortress and guiding their path through the vision-slits cut in his shield. She was rendered useless until it was time to give the signal to open the phalanx and release their passengers, just another set of boots treading the muddy ground. Once they were away, Marta had no intention of giving the signal to reform the phalanx, instead dropping the Newfield flag and slipping through a gap for safety as soon as the opportunity arose.
Their march was slow and torturous, cascades of musket fire pounding their shields in a downpour of ru
inous rain punctuated occasionally by the thunder of crashing cannonballs. But their shields held, the Shapers keeping their steady and well-trained march, the sabermen within quite safe. Gonzalo called out and Marta knew they had arrived. Waving her flag, she signaled the phalanx to open its sides into the midst of the musketeers.
“Remember Creightonville,” one of the saberman cried as he pushed through the breach. The phrase was a rallying cry for the West to remind them of the Render who had been executed to spark the Grand War. Marta heard that those in the East cried the same words, remembering the emet that the overzealous Render cut down to start the war. Neither side seemed to mind they invoked the same incident.
The sabermen streamed out the openings, their swords flashing as they engaged their Eastern enemies. Armed only with knives and swinging their muskets as clubs, the musketeers should not have stood a chance against the charge. But no one in the Western command had taken the pride or savagery of the Easterners into account. Though ill-equipped against these close-quarter fighters, the musketeers did not retreat, instead hurling themselves against them with a bravery Marta had not witnessed before. Though they fell left and right, they held the line, Marta both awed and inspired by their valor.
Huddled behind their shields and catching glimpses through the slits, she was not the only Easterner to feel the twinge of pride. Some Shaper near the front began singing “The Sun Rises in the East” slightly off key. Soon all the other Eastern Shapers joined in, delight in their undefeated kinsmen shining in their eyes.
Somehow the musketeers held the line long enough for gauche reinforcements to arrive to engage the Newfield sabermen on equal terms. Except the bravery of the Eastern soldiers could not be equaled by the Westerners, and soon the sabermen’s ranks dwindled. Marta did not even need to race for safety. Sanctuary was coming in their direction, sure to eliminate the last of their captors in moments.
Suddenly several squads of the gauche swordsmen broke off from the fray and aimed at each of the open phalanxes. The refrain of “The Sun Rises in the East” still reverberating in their bunkers, the 1st Shaper Company hailed their liberators as they opened their shields wider.
Four of the Covenant swordsmen pushed into her phalanx to be welcomed with open arms. Only one shield away from her, the first gauche swordsman then hurled a word that would haunt Marta for the rest of her life.
“Traitors!”
His sword flashed, slitting the throat out of one of the singing Shapers and silencing his voice forever. His Covenant companions hesitated no more than he had, slashing and hacking their way through those in the mobile fortress.
Cutting down the man next to her, the first gauche fighter turned his sights upon Marta, who held the Newfield flag. His sword arm rose, but never had a chance to swing, Marta driving her phantom blade into his chest by instinct.
It was the second time she had killed, both times Easterners, but Marta did not pause to ponder as she turned her fury on the next gauche invader. He tried to use his dagger to deflect her blow, but Marta made her blade intangible to pass through his parry, returning its substance in time to cleave his skull.
The other Shapers in her platoon rallied, turning against those they had thought would liberate them. But they carried no weapons, their slow Armor open to sword and dagger thrusts. They finally overwhelmed the Eastern invaders by their numbers alone. The attack by the four Covenant swordsmen only lasted a moment, but by the time they were finally dispatched, the Shaper ranks were reduced by a third.
They would stand no chance out on the battlefield without weapons, Marta realized. Hoisting her flag, she swung it high and cried out at the top of her lungs.
“Retreat!”
Having been drilled for months, the Shapers should have snapped to action, but now horror galloped rampant among their ranks. Confusion and betrayal accompanied the horror as they realized their countrymen had turned against them. Some Shapers dutifully grasped their shields, but too late Marta noted their numbers were too depleted to create the full fortress. There would be too many holes, more gauche fighters able to sluice through once they finished with the diminishing Newfield sabermen.
Looking out the sight-hole at the nearest phalanx, Marta saw they too had been decimated and were frozen in place from the loss of men. There were not enough Shapers to mobilize either fortress, but perhaps between them there might be. Marta swung the flag again, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Leave the shields! We run for the other platoon! Now!”
The flag unfurling behind her, Marta raced through the nearest opening, unsure if any of her platoon would follow. And perhaps they would not have, but Gonzalo followed her charge, the first pebble that began an avalanche of bodies.
The run across the battlefield without weapon or any defense took only a few moments, but to Marta it lasted two lifetimes. She heard each snap of the flag fluttering above her like a musket shot, sure each one would send her Breath out into the flow.
She crashed into the other phalanx to see they had fared no better than hers, but Abner awaited her there, stumbling over a dead Covenant fighter as he threw his arms around her. No word passed between them, but each understood there would be no salvation in the East. Their only chance resided in retreating to the West.
“Take hold a shield, boys!” Abner called. Members of Marta’s platoon replaced those that had fallen in Abner’s, all ready to close rank and make the slow march back to their captors.
But then the Weavers arrived.
It was only a squad numbering not more than five of the Eastern Blessed. Yet between them, they summoned two dozen manifestations to cut a swath through the last of the Western resistance. The Weavers then caught the Breaths of the dying men and fashioned them even more manifestations to swell their ranks. These they aimed straight for the remains of the 1st Shapers.
“By grace or by grave?” Marta whispered to Abner, her hand seeking his.
“Only wish I was on Eastern soil when I joined the flow,” he replied. Then the opening strains of “The Sun Rises in the East” escaped his lips. Marta joined in as the manifestations swarmed their way, their song infused with defiance and defeat equally.
The manifestations never reached them though, a solitary man stepping to intercept them with a bummers cap upon his head and a glass dagger brandished in his hand.
Marta had never truly seen a Render in action before and did not know how deadly their drawing could be when coupled with a glass blade. She had heard tales, but they were as insufficient in capturing the reality of the actual event as a description of the cold would have been to those who had survived the Overhurst winter in the Pit. The Render was constantly in motion, drawing the Breath of the manifestations to him long before they covered the ground, his glass blade cutting them apart as it flashed. The manifestations were reduced by half even before they reached him.
She was sure he would be overwhelmed then, but miraculously the Render remained untouched, whirling through their ranks and slicing them apart. It was as if Sol Himself laid His hand upon the Render to declare no harm should befall him. He was truly Blessed among the Blessed.
The Eastern Weavers summoned even more manifestations to hurl them against the Render. But they fell faster than they were fashioned—not a one a match for the man as they crashed against him like waves against rocks.
The humans of the Covenant armies thought their swords might fare better, his glass dagger sure to shatter when it clashed against their steel. None reached him, the Render drawing their Breath and cutting them down from a distance. So severe was his slaughter that the gauche ranks broke before they met him, whole squads now fleeing from the single man.
Then, to Marta’s amazement, the Render advanced, slaying the stragglers as he marched straight for the knot of Weavers. Perhaps they remained to cover their fellow troops’ retreat, or perhaps they did so because they were filled with arrogance and sure their Blessed abilities were more than a match against this man with th
e opposite understanding of the will of Sol. Their motivation would never be known though, the Render falling upon them and massacring them to the man.
Suddenly a cheer sounded from behind the pinned Shapers, Marta looking back to see the Western forces charging forward to pursue the shattered Eastern army. They flowed through the now immobile fortress like water, flooding the remains of the Eastern line and washing it away in a cleansing tide. Marta found herself caught up in the wave, only breaking free when she found herself beside the Render who had held the line alone.
He was a big man and ill-proportioned, his neck flopping out the unfastened collar of his cloak. This close to the stout Render, Marta could not believe he was capable of the quick and agile motions she had witnessed moments before. His eyes were mismatched, Marta realizing it was because one was glass, the Render powerful enough to fashion one already, though he could not be much older than she. Such a feat was unheard of among one so young, her confusion confounded further by his dull stare. He seemed nothing but a simpleton.
But he had saved their lives, a fact Marta was grateful for.
“Thank you.”
She thought perhaps he had not heard her as he continued to gaze at the horizon. Then he shook his head, turning towards Marta, as if he had not realized she was there. But once he saw her scar, his look of scorn was so severe Marta recoiled, as if she had been branded again.
“You were lucky they were Weavers, traitor.”
***
The name stuck, soon both the Newfield and Covenant forces calling the remains of the 1st Shaper Company the Traitors Brigade. The fact their numbers had been reduced by nearly a quarter in a single engagement, now not enough men to even fill a proper company, let alone a brigade, did not matter in the least. Whenever anyone saw them, all they saw was the traitor.
Upon returning to the Western line, they counted their casualties. Marta’s squad of twenty-five had lost seven, men she had known from training and their time in the Pit. Abner’s platoon had lost nine, but the other five phalanxes had fared much worse with over half of their members dead on the field and one platoon gone entirely. They had no weapons during the attack, were unable to defend themselves against the Easterners they had, until that moment, considered their allies. Regrouping to lick their wounds, Marta felt that her fellow Shapers viewed her differently.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 20