Chapter 31
Septembris 17, 565 (Two Years Ago)
Caught away from cover on their foolish charge, the Western forces were mowed down by the Easterners, musket balls dropping all but those huddled behind the Shapers’ shields. The few troops who remained were now in full retreat, breaking any semblance of formation as they fled into the woods, their weapons heedlessly discarded as they ran.
“Abandon the shields!” Marta cried. “Into the town!”
“And what salvation do you expect—”
The bullet cut Reid off, snapping his head back as a plume of red exited his temple.
Marta did not pause to watch him fall as she leapt away on her rabbit legs to abandon Reid on the field. Marta assured herself he would understand her decision if the musket ball left any remnants of his mind. Reid had not been squashed like a bug as he had hoped, but his suffering was at least at an end.
Only her brothers and sisters of the Traitors Brigade obeyed her order, the new recruits that made them the Furies deserting with the rest of the Newfield troops. Those that had served by her side from the beginning were the only ones who understood this would be their last stand, that there would be no quarter offered from the East. It was now no longer a battle for victory or even survival, but only to take as many bastards with them as they could before breathing their last. They were going to fall, but they were going to make the East pay dearly for each inch they took.
For once securing weapons was not difficult, her troops scooping up discarded muskets as they ran. With them Marta set up ambushes in the empty building, dropping any Eastern pursuers that dared enter the city. She then split the Traitors Brigade into squads of four, each cell independently fortifying its own building and moving on before the Eastern forces could discover where they hid. The Easterners never knew from where the next terrible blow would come, hundreds dying while only claiming a few blocks on the outskirts of the city.
Miraculously Marta and her men held Fieldhollow for the third day, the Covenant armies finally falling back at nightfall to the Browns River that was now stained red. If they were wise, they would skirt the city and make the final press on to Vrendenburg.
Instead they sent the daemons in after them.
Perhaps they were afraid a larger Western contingent awaited them in Fieldhollow. Or perhaps they were just tired of the loss of human life, but the nine daemons stormed the city no matter the Eastern rational. At their appearance, the buildings the Traitors Brigade held so well against the human forces became a liability as the daemons toppled them upon their inhabitants.
Marta was just ordering her squad’s retreat when their building came crashing down, the rubble rumbling towards her. It was Abner who pushed her to safety, the crushing weight claiming him instead. Her anger flared as she stared at the wreckage, Abner surely dead at its core. But her anger was not aimed at the daemon that took his life or the Eastern Weavers who controlled it; rather, it was aimed at Abner for not letting her die.
She unleashed her rage on the daemon though. Her glass saber was shattered with just a few shards left around the hilt, but it was enough, as Marta hacked the daemon down to nothing with the remains, finally smashing its glass heart with the steel hilt before retreating farther.
***
It was a long night of brutal fighting block by bloody block. Skill and desperation saved some of the Traitors Brigade along with a healthy dose of luck, but the last of their luck had finally run out, Marta cornered with Leon, Tollie, and a few others in the rubble of a building as two daemons raged outside. Their glass blades were now entirely gone, the five muskets between them no use against the monsters. Gazing at the cowering Tollie, Marta realized he was the only one who remained of Abner’s cadre from the Pit. Abner, Reid, Ida, Rupert, and Gonzalo were all gone now. She did not mind dying beside the gentle Tollie, but Leon’s presence irked her. She hated the idea that their bodies might share the same mass grave, their Breath the same air as they entered Sol’s flow.
They were expecting their end at any moment when the daemons suddenly withdrew, a ghastly silence filling the ruins of Fieldhollow. Her soldiers fell silent as well, afraid to jinx their reprieve by giving voice to it.
The silence was finally broken by the slap of feet running through the city, the man’s hair that disturbed the somber scene nearly as white as the flag he carried. “Where’s your commander? We must have terms!”
“They’ll allow us to surrender?” Tollie asked, hope climbing into his voice.
“No surrender,” Marta answered with a voice as flat and lifeless as her eyes. “Put him down.”
Leon was still setting the musket to his shoulder when Marta recognized the Eastern soldier in his decorated uniform. His white hair was what had confused her, it being quite dark in all of the photographs from before the war. The Eastern General Loree had aged badly in the last four years, no longer hale and hearty, but teetering on the edge of elderly.
She caught Leon’s hand before he pulled the trigger as Loree cried out in the empty street, his voice tremulous. “Send out your commander so we can surrender properly!”
It looked like a trap, but Loree was known for being honorable and Marta had no other available option as she stepped out of their crumbling shelter. As she approached, Loree stripped out of his uniform and threw it to the ground.
“Stop it. Please tell them to stop the devastation,” he begged, punctuating his plea by spitting upon his discarded insignia. “Please, for the love of Sol, call a stop to them.”
“To what?”
“The airships!”
***
And so the Grand War was won by the West, Loree’s surrender officially taken by Grubb for the history books, though she had fled earlier that day. It was only symbolic though, the Covenant President Langdon having surrendered unconditionally to Bumgarden via the Dobra network over an hour before. Ever eloquent, the papers later quoted him as saying he accepted the West’s dominion “until the end of Ayr and Sol’s merciful return,” leaving no doubt as to who the victor was.
At least that was what Marta pieced together after Grubb’s reformed ranks swept through the remains of Fieldhollow to quickly usher the remnants of the Traitors Brigade onto trains. The soldiers of the Traitors Brigade could have resisted, could have fought their way free rather than being led away like prisoners. They might not have even had to fight since many of Grubb’s troops understood they were alive today because of the Eastern Shapers’ sacrifice. They might have willingly let them escape, but the survivors of the Traitors Brigade knew they had nowhere left to go and marched to the awaiting trains meekly as sheep to the slaughter.
They were shipped back to their training grounds of Mitkof Island, again imprisoned by the vast Arrowhead Lake. On their route the name Orthoel Hendrix was on everyone’s lips, the airships that ended the war apparently his invention. Marta remembered the oddly manic and mechanical man that unsettled her at the start of the war and wondered if she would still be alive now if his life had ended long ago, like she had insisted at the time.
Though the newspapers they were provided on Mitkof never explicitly stated it, the Shapers knew the devastation wrought by the airships was horrendous. How else would such a titan like Loree be reduced to whimpering, the proud Langdon debasing himself and his Covenant with his unconditional terms? Each morning when the news arrived, the Traitors Brigade flocked around, pouring through the papers to see if their homes had been spared. Marta did not join them, not since the first day when she discovered Gatlin was one of the first neutralized cities.
The papers made no mention of the Traitors Brigade at Fieldhollow, not one word of their sacrifice that had helped secure the West’s victory. Nor was there any information on their men and women who had fallen there, no indication as to who was dead or wounded. Those who could still walk were herded onto the trains to Mitkof. There, they were fed well enough, but their hunger now ran deeper than their bellies. It had invaded their bones as they yearned for home.
Marta wrote her letter to Abner’s wife in Meome, handing it to their captors without postage and only the faintest prayer that they would mail it for her. She tried to get word to Bumgarden as well, imploring him to remember his tools that had earned him his victory.
She received no reply from the president she had not voted for, but had helped elect.
***
It was near the end of the first month when Leon finally approached her. Somehow he made it through the entire war scarcely scathed; the only mark blemishing his face the brand they both bore. Although all the others in their company had visibly diminished during the Grand War, Leon seemed to swell from the bloodshed, seemed to grow stronger with each life he took. Marta had sworn he would not see the end of the war, but it was just another promise she had been unable to fulfill as he spoke.
“I have waited for you each night, but still you have not come. Why? Don’t you realize we are meant for one another, that no one can love you but me?”
At first Marta could not comprehend his twisted mind and how it was he thought she belonged to him. She may have been a sought-after beauty in her prime, but she was monstrous now. How could he desire her?
Then she realized it was this new aspect that he craved. He saw the killer in her better than any of the others and thought that her bloody nature reflected his own.
Marta acted before she was even aware the anger was there, cracking him in the mouth with her gauntlet hard enough to shatter his teeth as her phantom blade slid unbidden into her hand. Leon fell, her weapon rising as the clarity hit her and saved his life yet again.
She would be hanged if she killed him, but it was not that which stayed her hand. It was the fact Leon was still grinning at her through the fragments of his teeth, the full fury of her rage exciting him. If she killed him, she would prove that he was right; she would become a monster in that moment and confirm his conception of her was correct.
Marta decided then and there she would not let Leon be right about her, so she stalked away to reclaim her humanity. The Grand War had made her a monster, but she would not embrace her state any more than she would Leon.
Chapter 32
Winterfylled 24, 567
The plan was sound, but Marta’s mind hardly was. An eastbound train would arrive any time now, stopping in the city long enough to exchange its passengers and cargo. Marta would simply open the gate that kept the train in place while Luca and Isabelle collected the engineer to man the throttle and set the lodestone for their departure ahead of schedule.
It was a simple plan, just as the plans for Cildra Armor were. But despite their simplicity, both had several moving parts, and Marta was hardly capable of movement anymore. The remains of the ekesh still swam through her veins and Isabelle’s drugs wore off long ago. It was force of will alone that kept Marta awake, and it was a dwindling resource.
It was the longest hour of Marta’s life as they hid below the train’s platform and waited for someone, anyone, to give the cry of alarm when they were spotted. They peered about for the Render Graff’s Blessed Breath, but the flickering lights of the constantly flowing ley buried any hopes of finding a single one amidst the myriad. Marta’s headache was already thunderous, though Luca seemed unaffected, she desiring nothing more than to retreat into unconsciousness to avoid the agony.
Finally the train arrived, slowing to a stop as it reached the giant gate to keep it in place. As the turbines above the engine came to a rest, the fugitives kept watch through the slats of the platform for the engineer. She departed with the rest of the emerging crowd to head for the first class lounge. It was a high honor to hobnob with the pilot of the contraption, one they intended to avail themselves of shortly. So they waited until the train was empty before Luca and Isabelle headed away with the rope Marta provided from her haversack.
“By grace or grave,” Marta called out after them. Luca did not quite hear her words, but grinned back nonetheless.
The two arrived at the lounge and halted at the door. There, Luca pulled his kerchief up to cover his nose and mouth, Isabelle tearing a strand from her skirt to do the same. Luca gave his companion one last wink before they shoved the door open.
Decorum usually kept the riffraff out, but it did nothing to stop the two freebooters as they barreled through the unlocked door. Inside, the engineer awaited them along with a dozen well-dressed guests, including the Home Guardsman, his bear-headed silver pin shining. He did not need to Listen to know their intent as his hand reached for the pistol at his waist.
“Brigands!”
Luca was on him instantly, his lockblade pressed against the man’s neck with just enough force to leave a thin trickle of blood. The rest of the startled crowd cowered as Luca wrested the pistol away and turned it upon them.
“Pull that trigger and you’ll swing. Thievery is one thing, but murder…” the guardsman intoned.
They were there for kidnapping actually, the idea of theft not having entered Luca’s mind until that moment. But if it was expected of him, he figured he might as well oblige. One could only swing once after all.
“You,” he nodded to the engineer, “collect their lucre.”
Isabelle mentally screamed at him for this deviation from their plan, Luca’s placating smile hidden beneath his kerchief. He cared nothing for the money, only the cover it would afford them as Isabelle began binding the frightened passengers with rope, the guardsman first.
The engineer was dutifully collecting their billfolds when Luca spied the real prize in its case against the wall. It was no mandolin, but it would have to do as he called out, “Leave the rest and grab the fiddle. Step quick, you’re coming with us.”
***
Marta struggled with the gate, its massive weight usually requiring the pulleys that resided on the platform. She was walking through the ley beneath the platform though, and did not have the time to muddle through the machinery. The strange new Armor she recently wore would make short work of the gate, but when she searched her mind for the plans, they remained elusive. So she summoned her childish Armor, the last of her reserves spent as she pressed the gate upwards and slogged back to Caddie.
***
The engineer before them, Luca and Isabelle had almost reached the train when they recognized the familiar figure. It was his bummers cap that gave him away, the musket ball hole torn straight through the center.
The hat’s owner did not seem to see them though, his back turned and face pointed up at the sky as if searching the stars. The man never turned their way as they passed behind him, but they were not three feet farther when his heavy footfalls fell into step behind them.
Isabelle continued on as Luca whirled to face the Render with his open lockblade. But beholding the man up close, Luca was sure there was some terrible mistake. The Render had the countenance of a child, his eyes unfocused and vacant. There was no recognition in the Render’s face, and suddenly the Dobra found himself feeling sorry for the man who was about to die.
Luca would not be his killer though. He was only the distraction.
Isabelle’s steel bearing tore through the air, her aim a deadly thing that never faltered.
Yet somehow she missed, the missile simply knocking Graff’s cap off rather than aerating his skull. Luca had never seen her miss before and found this sudden shortcoming in his constant companion startling. It would be up to him to kill the Render, then, and he best end the man quickly before the Render killed him in turn.
Before Luca could act Graff fell to his knees and began searching the platform for his lost hat, as if the two of them were not there. It was only a few feet from him, but the Render seemed blind as his hands reached pitifully about. In that moment he reminded Luca of the doddering Onas he knew growing up rather than the terrifying fiend they had been fleeing all this time.
Watching the woeful man, Luca concluded it was quite possible that Marta had lost her mind. There was no way this bottom pull of a bug could be as frightening as she clai
med. Luca could easily finish him off, could kill the killer of Stone Cleaver, but Luca instead chose mercy. Killing to survive was one thing; there was a purity in that, but slaughtering a simpleton was entirely another as he retreated to the train.
The others were already aboard the floating locomotive, the engineer bringing the huge turbines to life. The train lurched forward as Luca leapt inside the engine car, its momentum increasing as it pulled away from the platform. It left surprised shouts in its wake, the passengers crying out for their belongings still aboard. Looking back at the quickly fading platform, they saw no sign of the Render.
The last car was just pulling away when the pudgy man made the leap with an agility that belied his girth. The train still gathered speed as they made their escape, but Marta shook her head.
“It’s no use. Graff has us. It’s only a matter of time before he finishes us off.”
“Then we jump,” Luca replied.
“And so does he. Then he’ll be ahead of us, the army behind. I’d rather face the army, but it will be Graff that finds us first.”
Luca was shocked to see the defeat in Marta’s tired eyes, her jaw set grimly. “He still has ten cars to go before he reaches us. So we detach them,” he said.
A spark of hope returned to Marta’s face, their gazes turning to the engineer. But the woman shook her head. “They have to be released manually from underneath the train.”
Yet another avenue of escape closed for them, Luca brandished his stolen pistol. “We wait until he’s close enough and bury a bullet in him.”
“And do with one shot what the entire Eastern army couldn’t during the war?” Marta would have been furious, at the man who could not give up even in the face of defeat, of the Render who would show them no mercy; at the simple plan they had almost pulled off were it not for the fickleness of fate. But she was too tired for anger and did not have time to rage.
“I’ll detach the cars.”
She doffed her hat before anyone could argue, Marta unsure what to do with it before finally placing it on Caddie’s head. Graff drawing ceaselessly nearer, she had no more time to waste as she threw open the door leading to the rest of the train. The air rushing around her, she unbolted the door to the next car as well to keep the way clear for their single shot if it came down to that.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 30