The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  Marta originally tried to keep order among her Shapers by continuing their training each night. But soon her soldiers were too tired, too weak for any unnecessary exertion, and so she had suspended any activities that did not pertain to finding food. Soon they would be too weak to fight, Marta again angrily explaining this to Bumgarden as she met with him over dinner.

  Bumgarden took her outburst well, again reminding her that his hands were tied. General Underhill had left explicit instructions that the Traitors Brigade was to remain unsupplied from the quartermasters’ wagons.

  “Dunderhill’s going to lose the war that way,” Marta cried. “He’s weakening the one force that’s proved successful!”

  Bumgarden did not dispute this, instead giving Marta half his own rations despite the edict against it. It did little to sate the hunger of her troops, the nourishment spread too thin among the remaining 187. They would be reduced to boiling bark and dried leaves soon.

  Their weakness did not stop Underhill from occasionally flinging his forces against the city, the Traitors Brigade always at the forefront of his charges. But the Eastern pits and trenches were treacherous, as proven that day when Domingo Bousall stumbled to expose their flank to a barrage of grapeshot. Her platoons were cut to ribbons, Marta watching as Collins Mahon, Fernando Pardue, Andrea Farley, and Orson Lackie fell along with nearly the entirety of the musketeers they were transporting.

  Their corpses littered the ground around her, the carcass of her mobile fortress butchered and left on the battlefield to decay along with the men and women inside. The bodies trailed all the way back to the Western line, no one able to retrieve them under the heavy fire from the Eastern trenches. Though the citizens might be starving, Sinton still could produce munitions to defend itself. It seemed that if the Covenant army could feed off of musket balls, they would live forever, and the Eastern soldiers sought to share their bounty with their enemies, delivering the bullets one at a time through a constant hail of fire.

  The Traitors Brigade remained trapped in the no-man’s land throughout the day, pinned down as the winter winds ripped down upon them. So they hunkered behind their fallen shields, digging themselves deep as they could in the frozen dirt as they waited for rescue.

  Night had been upon them for several hours now, the darkness allowing the Breath of the dying to illuminate the ground as it departed now-hollow bodies. Marta watched as four arose into the air, the Breaths hovering there a moment like disoriented bumblebees before disbursing and floating slowly away. The four fragments meant the newly deceased was Blessed, probably a Shaper and one of Marta’s own.

  The dark hid the identity of the corpse, and Marta realized she did not care who it was. She would gladly sacrifice five of her own if it meant she could steal a moment of warmth. The wind was brutal, and as she shivered Marta found herself wondering what else she would give up for just a second of succor. Strangely enough, she found herself missing those nights in the Pit when she had Abner to keep her warm. She had thought that place a nightmare, but it seemed a sweet dream when compared to the ground surrounding Sinton.

  The bloodthirsty Leon was not far off on the field, Marta having transferred him to her platoon to keep an eye on him. His eyes had wandered all over her in that time, the man now calling out from his cover.

  “If you want some company, I’ll gladly keep you warm.”

  Marta would willingly sacrifice him and considered taking him up on his offer, though not to share his body heat. Alone and unseen in the dark, she could finally put the mad dog down. But he was an adept fighter, and Marta decided he would live for now because he was still useful.

  The dead were useful as well, Marta realized as she reached over to snag the shirt of Collins Mahon. The cloth gave way on her third tug, but Marta stretched herself farther until she finally caught his cold hand and hauled his corpse to join her behind her overturned shield.

  Marta risked crawling out from behind her cover to acquire Andrea Farley, dragging her dead body back to her shelter inch by inch. With the two cold forms of her former comrades, Marta fashioned a screen against the chill, their bodies providing a bulwark against the wind’s bursts. She cuddled against their corpses, their cold forms providing her a bit of comfort.

  In that moment Marta understood misery in its entirety. Most believed misery had a purpose, its existence to make joy seem all the sweeter in contrast, but they were all fools. There was no real comfort, no joy or ease in life. Moments of joy just existed to make the pain of every day more pronounced since one could not understand the true depths of suffering without the dizzying heights of joy. Those brief moments were nothing but the carrot held before the plodding beasts known as humans, a goal they could never reach as they slouched stupidly on towards their inevitable deaths.

  She could give it up, turn her back upon the carrot and walk slowly towards the city of Sinton until some musket ball took away her misery. By midnight Marta was genuinely considering this possibility when the coronet player finally set his instrument to his lips. Hidden away next to their crimson Covenant flag on the highest tower in Sinton, his first plaintive notes reached her despite the distance.

  They were told his song was a tradition throughout the siege from the very beginning, and this same coronet player performed “The Sun Rises in the East” each night at midnight. It had to be the same musician because Marta had never heard the song delivered so beautifully before.

  The melody was usually played with the harsher tones of the trumpet, but this musician used the warmer coronet, if by choice or the necessity of scarcity, Marta was unsure. Although traditionally a lively march to inspire the Easterners, the coronet player slowed it down until it was almost a dirge, each note a stab to Marta’s heart by conjuring memories of Gatlin. It was more effective than any weapon they had thrown at the Traitors Brigade thus far by reminding them of the home they now fought against.

  Marta knew it was a trap, but she still stayed up each night to listen along with the rest of her troops. It was so beautiful she could not help herself, the song a slow poison that stole her heart away, a venom that sapped her will to fight more effectively than their lack of food. But the best traps were the ones their prey walked into willingly, and Marta was yet another eager victim.

  From nearby Marta heard the voice of a dying man sing along with the tune. His position on the battlefield ensured he was one of Marta’s men, but she did not risk raising her head up to discover his identity. Instead she cuddled closer to the corpses beside her.

  He sang for the entirety of the song, each word more ragged than the last. And as the final strain of the song died, so did the Shaper, his four Breaths rising into the air and scattering. Though no longer bound by his life, they still traveled together towards the city of Sinton and the nodus hidden within. The man was lucky, she decided. He had died in the East, his misery at an end, and some part of her envied him.

  Marta truly hated the city of Sinton with her whole, withered heart.

  Chapter 24

  Winterfylled 24, 567

  They broke camp before dawn, Caddie quietly playing with Luca’s bix sticks as he shaved with his straight blade. He was about to reclaim them from the child when he stopped dead, peering at how they had fallen.

  “What did you see?” Marta inquired.

  “It’s nothing.” Luca still watched Caddie carefully as she picked them up in her indecipherable order. “Throw them again.”

  Caddie did as he bid and again Luca did not seemed pleased. Not waiting for the girl to perform a third throw, he scooped the bix sticks up and grinned at Marta.

  “It’s just a stupid toy.”

  But there was now a strain to his smile Marta could not ignore.

  ***

  They swiftly hiked over the nearest hill through the predawn, their target the trace of smoke wafting into the air to show them the way to Underhill’s dragoons. Leaving Caddie with their supplies, they stalked the last hundred yards through the trees to find th
e patrol still hunkered over their breakfast. The Western forces had left no picket line, allowing the three to slip up unseen. Their targets wore the insignia of the Arcus 2nd Dragoon Company, men Marta had fought with at Watkins Run not far from here.

  Though they bore the same style of uniform and insignia, these were not the men Marta had fought beside. Just looking at them she saw they were nothing but six youths untested by the war. Only their sergeant appeared to have seen any action, his skin like leather. Again Marta could recognize her own as she kept an eye on the dangerous man. The rest of his platoon would prove easy pickings for the three as they fanned out through the trees.

  Marta expected she would feel some excitement as she was again about to enter into battle. Instead she only felt annoyance, these troops just another inconvenience on her path to Ceilminster. Any fear or anxiety that used to precede a battle had been burned out of her from the Grand War, her formerly constant companion in her anger barely bothering to stir its sleepy head at the appearance of these boys.

  She did not hear Isabelle’s first shot with the sling, but watched as one of the soldiers in the back fell. The second joined him on the ground before their victims knew they were even under attack, Isabelle’s third steel bearing striking the sergeant as he reached for his scattershot musket.

  Marta was in motion at once, her rabbit legs covering the ground to crash into a knot of three before they could disperse for their weapons. The first she caught in the chest with her gauntlet, feeling his ribs give way through her exuded Breath. She had just belted the second in the head when Luca engaged the last straggler she could not reach.

  The dragoon drew his long saber, Luca armed with his significantly shorter lockblade, but the man showed no fear as he regarded his foe. “Put that down, boy. It’s already over. No need to get yourself hurt.”

  Marta’s final victim surrendered without further violence, his arms high above his head when the dragoon with the saber foolishly reared back to swing the thing at Luca.

  The attack was a clumsy attempt, its inelegance made more evident as the man stepped in on the swing. The saber never had a chance to cut him, Luca far inside its arc and now close enough to smell the boy’s breakfast on his breath. Luca could have ended his life then and there with his lockblade. Instead Luca’s left hand flew back to land a stinging slap to the boy’s face.

  Though the blow was more surprising than damaging, the boy stumbled upon the ground. Luca towered over his foe, the boy still clinging to the ineffectual cutlass as Luca reached down to help him up with the same hand that dropped him.

  “Leave the pig-sticker. There’s no shame in surrendering.”

  Marta disarmed her own adversary, the dragoon’s arms above his head as she grabbed his saber and knife and hurled them away. Unlike his companion, he had resigned himself to his defeat and seemed more interested in his fellow soldier facing Luca than the indignity of his own surrender.

  The boy on the ground swung his saber towards Luca, keeping the blade low as he flailed about. The awkward attack was meant to drive Luca back as he regained his footing, but Luca simply hopped over the blow, bringing the hilt of his knife down on the boy’s head as he tried to stand. The blow was heavier than his last, the boy’s eyes swimming as he plopped back to the earth.

  “That’s your last warning. Stand down while you still have the chance.”

  For a moment Marta thought the soldier would indeed yield as his grip on his saber slackened. Then the dragoon who surrendered to her called out.

  “Don’t give them the pleasure, Jackson!”

  Marta could not decide if the fallen Jackson was not meant to give them the pleasure by standing down or by continuing his embarrassing assault. Either way, the boy leapt to his feet, the sword held at the ready. He brandished it defensively, the blade close to his body so as to ward off Luca’s impending attack. Luca did not attack though, his mouth drawn tight and making his words clipped.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jackson’s end came quickly, the boy tentatively jabbing with his saber. Luca easily sidestepped the lunge, catching Jackson’s wrist with his free hand to drive the point of his lockblade into the attacking appendage until it pierced its way through to the other side. Blood bloomed bright red as Luca withdrew his knife, the boy dropping his saber and crumpling to join the discarded weapon on the ground.

  Luca kicked the saber away, flicking the boy’s blood off his blade before closing it. The act of kicking the weapon was purely perfunctory though. The injured boy was no more a threat to him now than when he held the saber. But although Jackson had held his tongue during the short battle, he now screamed bloody murder. His cries had a keening edge to them Marta usually associated with newborns. It was equal parts piteous and humiliating, and Marta felt shamed for having to bear witness to it. Her eyes sought out her latest victim, the one who told his companion to not give them the pleasure.

  “Care for him.”

  “Care for him how?” he asked, his eyes horrified. He had not seen a punctured artery before, and Marta did not have the time or interest to explain how to fashion a tourniquet from his belt. Not that it would have done the wounded Jackson much good.

  “Keep him quiet. If you don’t, I will.”

  He hurried away to hunker next to Jackson, Luca watching over the two as Marta collected all the discarded weapons. The muskets she tossed into a pile beside the fire. She claimed the sergeant’s scattergun though, tucking it into her belt as she made her way to the horses. She cared more for the beasts than she did for the men they usually carried or the weapons the men carried in turn.

  Only when four horses were saddled did Marta realize the wounded Jackson was not screaming anymore. Walking over, she saw the grass stained crimson, the boy’s life spilled away in a matter of moments, though he still clung to it. The other soldier tried desperately to comfort his dying companion, whispering over him, “You did good, made your father proud. You fought bravely and fell honorably.”

  It was the same silly refrain Marta had heard a hundred times before during the Grand War, but hearing it now raised her pique. What raised it even more was the look she received from Jackson. Though his gasps came in diminishing huffs, his eyes still had the strength to lock onto hers. Although he was weakening by the moment, his eyes still held a want, a need. He demanded something of her—seeking succor from her. He stared at her as if she could be his salvation, as if she could somehow deliver that spilled blood back within his dying veins.

  Scant moments ago she might have been able to save his life, to secure the tourniquet to staunch the blood flow. Instead she saw to the horses, and due to this decision, his life was forfeit. He did not understand her choice, could not comprehend how those animals mattered more to her than his life, and this lack of understanding riled her all the more under his stare.

  It was not her voice that broke the silence, rather Luca stating her thoughts. “There was no bravery on either side of this, no honor at all. To call it anything else is to lie.”

  Marta regarded the man invading her mind with his Listener abilities. Her companion was challenging her, Luca daring Marta to take action and end the situation he allowed to come to a head. So she extended her phantom blade.

  The soldier caring for him did not notice, but Jackson’s eyes went wide at its appearance. His eyes silently screamed for life, but Marta instead fed him death as she slid the blade across the dragoon’s throat to speed his end. It was the only merciful thing she could do.

  Luca shook his head as the last of Jackson’s blood spurted out his throat. A sucking sound came from the wound as he gasped, but his final flailing at life ended quickly. His grin long gone, Luca offered the only benediction the dead soldier would receive.

  “May your Breath’s next turn on the wheel of life be better than this one.”

  His hands still on his dead companion, the remaining dragoon stared fixedly at Marta. She could tell this was his first encounter with death—the first time
he was wetted by blood. How he responded would decide his fate and prove if he could accept the inevitability of death or not. It was a harsh lesson, but one the boy needed to learn if he would become a man.

  Unfortunately, he did not heed her instruction, as he launched himself at Marta with murder on his mind.

  She thrust her blade deep into his chest without a second thought, her face suddenly pressed to his as he went slack in her arms. She could see his shock firsthand, the look of surprise almost comical. He did not understand and now never would as she let him fall beside his comrade. The two dragoons’ Breath joined Sol’s flow within seconds of each other, now brothers in life and death. When the rest of their regiment found their remains, they might also share the same grave.

  “That was unnecessary,” said Luca, his voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t need to kill the boy.”

  “You were the one who killed him. I just sped what your damn lockblade started.”

  “I didn’t mean the poor wretch with the saber. Him I gave two chances to walk away, so he earned his end. I mean the other one, the one overcome with grief. What did you accomplish by killing him?”

  “I taught him the world’s an unpleasant place,” Marta answered evenly. “He had to learn that if he was to survive. He didn’t.”

  Only then did Marta notice Caddie watching from the edge of the woods. The child may not have seen it all, but was sure to have witnessed Marta killing the two boys without hesitation. From another child Marta might have expected hurt or fear from this, but there was no judgment in the girl’s blue eyes, only something close to curiosity. And that look irked Marta more than the want or confusion she had seen in the dead dragoons.