by Matt Wallace
“It’s getting worse,” Evie states flatly. “You’re just learning to ignore it.”
“And a harder lesson I cannot recall.”
It’s Brio making an attempt at his usual humor in the face of dire straits, but it feels even more forced than it did before the camp massacre.
“I’m sorry, Brio. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”
“That you found me at all is more grace than I expected in what remained of my increasingly shortened life. Never apologize for that.”
“But that leg—”
“There’s nothing to be done about it now. We have to keep moving, and I intend to do so until I can’t anymore. Hopefully it will be enough to take us all somewhere useful without you having to carry me.”
There’s little else to be said about the matter that will make any difference.
It’s another mile before the tar pit gives way once more to solid ground. An incline of gritty dust and yellow blades that are more thorn than grass slopes several hundred yards into a broad, open valley. Beyond that valley a line of dead trees is visible in the distance.
“What’re the chances of coming across a town out there?” Evie asks Mother Manai.
She laughs, grimly. “If this was ever a place for livin’ it’s only fit for killin’ and dyin’ now, my dear. It’ll be a hundred miles before we start seeing settlements outside the Tenth City.”
“Manai!” Lariat hisses at them. “Riders at our backs!”
Before she can spare a glance over her shoulder, Evie is being pulled down the hill and pressed flat just below the crest by Lariat’s powerful hands.
“Hit the dirt, the rest of you!” she hears Mother Manai order the rest of the Savages.
Evie looks to her right to see that the B’ors are already pressed flat below the hillcrest, silently and stealthily surveying what’s coming from the other side while the rest of them are still hunkering down in confusion.
She follows suit, carefully peering over the top of the hill. Evie counts twenty riders galloping two abreast, keeping a tight formation as the hooves of their mounts pummel the salted earth. The two columns are little more than slender lines in the distance, but they’re growing larger with every passing moment.
They’re obviously soldiers, but they aren’t wearing the same plate scale armor as the Sicclunan ground-pounders Evie faced in her first battle with the Savages. These riders are clad in lighter leather armor and splattered muddy shades of brown, green, and yellow, as if it has been painted to blend in to the wasteland itself. Instead of steel helms they wear cloth hoods and half-masks dyed the same smattering of colors. Each rider carries a long sword and a short sword sheathed from opposite hips, and Evie can make out larger skirmish weapons strapped to their saddles.
Their leader rides alone and out front of the two single-file columns. A wide-brimmed hat hides their face, and they’ve forgone the armor worn by the soldiers in favor of a thick leather tunic and trousers dyed a deep crimson. Evie spies no sword carried by the leader, long or short.
“They’re not outfitted like Sicclunan soldiers,” she observes.
“Oh, they’re Sicclunans, all right,” Lariat assures her. “They just ain’t infantry.”
“Outriders,” Mother Manai says. “Special Selection. We’ve heard about ’em, hadn’t run up against any on the battlefield. They’re special trained. Guerilla fighters. It was probably them that hit the camp in the night.”
Lariat grunts. “Sicclunans are tired’a losin’, it seems.”
“Took ’em long enough,” Manai adds.
“What are they looking for?” Evie asks.
“Us, no doubt,” Brio says. “Or any of the Skrain who survived the night raids and are trying to make it back to wherever the line has moved.”
Mother Manai nods. “Yer fancy Gen man there is right.”
“That seems like a lot of effort and risk just to kill a few strays.”
Manai shrugs. “Mayhap they’re lookin’ to take prisoners fer interrogation. Who knows, really? We’ve more pressing matters here. They’ll be at the foothills in no time.”
Evie nods. She pushes herself away from the ground and peers across their backs at where Brio is sprawled.
“No matter what happens, you stay planted in that spot. With that leg you’ll only get yourself killed.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Evie slinks back down the hill and crawling below their collective feet until she reaches the tight row of B’ors warriors. She creeps up beside Yacatek, returning her gaze to the approaching columns of horses.
“Sicclunan riders,” Evie tells her. “It’s a war party.”
Yacatek only nods.
“I count twenty. We have the numbers, but we don’t have the soldiers to match them in an open battle. We can’t flee and we can’t fight. Not to mention they’re on horseback—”
“Why are you wasting words on what we can all see with our eyes?” Yacatek asks irritably.
Evie almost grins. “Fine. What do we do?”
Instead of answering, Yacatek’s eyes flash at one of the B’ors warriors, then another. With the slightest gesture of her chin she seems to convey an entire plan of action to them, as they both nod and spring immediately into action, rising and sprinting over the hillcrest, weapons in hand.
Evie can feel the Elder Company watching the B’ors break cover and then looking to her in desperate rage, but she has no answers for them. Instead she watches the B’ors warriors charge down the other side of the hill in opposite directions, waving their handmade weapons and letting out loud and challenging hoots and hollers. By the time they reach the bottom of the hill they’re spaced yards apart, almost perfectly spanning one end of the hiding Savages to the other.
The Sicclunan party’s captain raises their left arm. The column of riders on that side of the leader’s mount quickly break formation and begin galloping toward the foot of the hill. They split into teams of five, each group riding to bear down both of the taunting B’ors warriors. When each team of horses has closed half the distance between their riders and the Savages, the B’ors warriors turn and begin charging back up the hill.
It’s at that moment Evie is struck by the stratagem unfolding. She spares a quick glance in Yacatek’s direction, surprised and appreciative, before turning to the Elder Company and the row of Savages beyond.
“Get ready!” she shouts across their sprawled bodies, drawing her pilfered short sword. “Take down the riders! Save the mounts if you can! We need those horses!”
“You heard her, you dogs!” Lariat growls at the largely timid untested assemblage of conscripts. “You don’t fight, you don’t eat!”
The first of the B’ors to draw the Sicclunan riders crests the hill and leaps over the waiting bodies of his fellow warriors. Before his feet have touched down, the rest of the B’ors are already springing from where they lie in wait with the speed and ferocity of mountain cats breaking cover to take down prey. The first rider to reach the top of the hill has an ax blade buried in their shoulder before they can even know what’s happening. The B’ors warriors are on the backs of the mounted riders that follow before they can draw their weapons.
To Evie’s left, Bam swings his mallet into the chest of an encroaching rider and knocks them clear of the saddle, their mount floundering and tripping over its own legs. The horse falls past her, raising six-foot clouds of dust as it tumbles down the hill.
Evie practically skips to catch up with the beast. She grabs the reins of the toppled mount and wrangles the horse back atop its hooves. Peering over its back as she attempts to quiet and calm the animal, Evie is shocked to see dozens of dirty, spindly hands dragging Sicclunan riders from their saddles with a shocking fury and precision; the Savages are not only rising to the occasion, they’re acting almost as one violent organism, overwhelming the more experienced soldiers with sheer force of will. Even as Evie sees hands and arms lopped off by Sicclunan blades, more hands reach over to replace them,
clawing and climbing and engulfing the riders.
Frantically, she searches their numbers for Brio, finding him cradling his leg down the hill. He looks as though he attempted to join the rush, but the injured, infected limb finally gave out on him.
Evie’s mind only registers that he’s safe for the moment.
“Bam!” she calls to the mallet-wielding giant. “With me!”
He strides toward her, the mallet’s haft held in both of his hands. It’s the only weapon carried by their band with enough reach to be effective from a mounted position, and wielded by Bam it recommends him to lead their forthcoming impromptu charge more than strongly enough to Evie’s thinking.
She turns over the reins to him, and Bam swings up onto the saddle with little more than a single step. Evie leaps up and settles behind him, hanging on to his cloak with one hand. She looks around, shocked again. All the B’ors warriors have claimed mounts, Yacatek riding double with a club-wielding tribesman. The rest of the Elder Company is mounted beside Evie and Bam, two of the more battle-hardened Savages behind them.
Evie slaps Bam on the shoulder. “To the hillcrest!” she urges him.
Bam steers their mount to the summit. Evie expected the rest of the Sicclunan outriders to rush up the hill as soon as they saw the ambush begin. Instead, their leader has held them back and formed them into a line several dozen yards from the foot of the hill. They wait there, swords at the ready. Evie has to admire their discipline. They couldn’t know what numbers were waiting for them on the other side of the hill, and rather than charge headlong into that potentially lethal unknown, they’ve gathered their remaining force and prepared for an attack, even at the expense of coming to their fellow soldiers’ aid.
The rest of the mounted Savages have joined Bam and Evie along the hilltop. On Evie’s left, Mother Manai grins and holds up a cleaver dripping with Sicclunan blood. On Evie’s right, Yacatek and the warrior riding behind her silently and intensely await the charge to come.
“Thirty-two battles and I’ve never sat a horse!” Lariat calls to her, sounding as though they’re preparing to ride to a feast. “I feel like the Lord Commander of the Skrain!”
“Give the order, little Sparrow,” Mother Manai says to Evie.
Evie blinks at her, uncertain.
“You brought us here, together,” Mother reminds her. “That makes it your command as much as any. Give the order!”
And they truly are awaiting her command, even the Elder Company. Evie looks to her right and sees Yacatek waiting as well, though even in that moment something tells her it’s more courtesy than anything else.
Evie nods. She stares down the hill at the waiting enemy line, raising her short sword.
“At them!” she cries.
Bam kicks and reins their horse into motion and Evie feels the rush of descending the hill at high speed. The Sicclunan captain orders their riders forward at the same time. Seconds later the mounted warriors clash like two waves made of horseflesh and steel, the mounts whinnying and the Savages howling their unrestrained cries of battle and the desperate bloodlust left to warriors with nothing else. Bam immediately knocks the head of the center rider between the man’s shoulder blades.
Evie leaps from behind Bam at the rider on his opposite flank, taking advantage of the soldier’s attention being focused on the mallet-wielding Savage. She hooks him around the throat and drags him from his saddle, managing to hang on to the bridle as she bears the soldier to the ground. Evie centers herself in the saddle. Below her, the soldier recovers to their feet, though they’ve lost grip of their sword.
Evie launches a kick into the outrider’s face, feeling bones shatter beneath meat. The soldier falls to the ground.
As the remaining Sicclunan riders contend with Evie, the Elder Company, the B’ors, and the remaining Savages swarm them on foot. Desperate and hungry hands again claw armed and armored soldiers from their saddles.
They’re slowly overtaking the remaining half of the Sicclunan war party. Evie rears her mount back from the battle and scans the ongoing wreckage for the party’s leader, but neither they nor their white mount are anywhere to be seen. Looking from the small battle to the flat lands across which they all came, Evie spots that oversize hat and a large white rump shrinking in the distance.
Without thinking, she turns her commandeered mount and charges after the Sicclunan captain.
By the time Evie realizes she’s left the battle, and her fellow Savages, behind she’s already closed a large portion of the gap between her horse and crimson outrider. A voice she’s begun to forget, her true voice, Ashana’s voice, warns her that she’s acting in haste and without any of the resources needed to cover her flank if things go wrong.
Evie the Savage doesn’t listen.
A large formation of dry, dust-laden boulders rises from the wasteland in front of them. Evie spurs her mount forward, galloping alongside the Sicclunan outrider captain. When she’s close enough, Evie jerks the reins to the right as hard as she possibly can, forcing her mount to collide with the other horse. Their front legs entwine and they’re both born to the ground, throwing Evie overhead and into the dirt between the beginnings of the rocks. The wind can’t seem to escape her body fast enough, and everything between her pelvis and neck goes numb.
Evie ignores the pain and the constriction choking her body and mind, scrambling to locate her short sword. The tsuka practically leaped from her hand when she went over her horse’s head. She spots the blade partially wedged inside the crack of a boulder. Evie crawls up the narrow pass into which they’ve toppled and retrieves the weapon. Thrusting its blade into the hard ground, she uses it as leverage to pull herself to her feet, though she has to half lean on the rocks just to turn herself around and maintain her footing.
The Sicclunan captain is sitting against another boulder on the other side of the pass, looking almost casual in their fine crimson leather and ridiculous hat. They might be reclining at an afternoon picnic. The only indication they’ve just been through a near-fatal fall is the steady rise and fall of their chest accompanying every shallow breath.
“You’re still alive, then?” Evie asks.
That moon-brimmed hat rises and she spots a flash of the queerest purple eyes beneath.
Evie can recall only one time in her life when she stared into eyes that color. They belonged to the Sicclunan agent disguised as a serving woman who attempted to poison the wine at Evie’s first and only Revel as a Savage. She was the only one besides Spud-Bar to realize Evie didn’t belong among the Legion.
Sirach smiles up at her. “Well, hello,” she says, jovial and effortless despite her labored breath. “We seem to keep meeting under the most dire of circumstances, don’t we?”
THE GOD RUNG
THERE IS NO RULE AGAINST any member of the Planning Cadre, be they a planner or a lowly floor sweeper, leaving the keep and roaming the island outside. The sole reason Dyeawan has yet to explore the island is access. It’s no easy trek from the main hall of the Cadre to the nearest level ground. There are no real paths to speak of; the Planning Cadre uses ropes and pulleys to take in supplies and large equipment.
Edger has told her the impassibility is no accident. He’s also apologized to her for it.
Despite the number of surprises that have filled her hours of late, Dyeawan finds there’s still a wellspring of bewilderment inside her when Edger asks her to “walk” along the beach with him one morning. She’s even more surprised to find ramps of smooth wood have been laid from the doors of the main hall over the rough incline of rocks and tall grass that separate the Cadre from the forest line.
“Were these built just for me?” she asks Edger as she steadies the tender rolling down the ramps.
“These should have been built long ago,” he says, following her. “You’re hardly the only one here with difficulties. And you’ve taught me that I’ve taken that for granted. In many ways.”
It’s just the two of them. Dyeawan wheels herself down
the beach with Edger trailing behind. The wind in her hair feels so different from the breeze that blows through the window of her tiny beloved room in the Cadre. It feels freer and wilder.
She realizes she does, too.
“How have you recovered from your ordeal?” Edger asks her.
“I want to swim in the bay more often,” Dyeawan replies without a trace of irony.
“I see. Then you aren’t angry with me?”
“No. I chose to take the test. I know I could have refused.”
“You could have, yes.”
“You knew I wouldn’t, though.”
“Of course I did.”
After a mile or two they reach a rise in the sand. From the top of it a long finger composed of piled stones shaped smooth and flat by centuries of waves extends a hundred yards out into the water.
“I want to show you something,” Edger tells her. “This is very special.”
He helps her navigate the tender up the incline in the sand. Once they’re abreast, Edger doesn’t so much push Dyeawan as stabilize her tender as she rows its wheels carefully over the uneven terrain of the rocks.
“Do you know or remember anything of your parents, Slider?” he asks her. “Where you came from?”
She shakes her head. “I only remember the other children, when I was even smaller and my legs still listened to me. There was a whole pack of us, like wild dogs, living in the street in the Bottoms.”
“Nothing before that?”
“No.”
“Does that seem… odd to you? With a mind and a memory like yours?”
“Yes,” Dyeawan answers honestly. “I had a lot of long days to think about it, to really… concentrate on it, but there’s nothing there, not even little pieces. There should be something. I know that. But it’s like whatever happened then was dug out of the ground and there’s only a dark hole left. All I can see is the hole.”
“Interesting.”
Dyeawan grins. “Now that I know so many more words, I’m not sure that is the one I would choose.”
“I’m sorry, that was callous of me,” Edger says, sounding sincere. “I only meant…”