Taking rear was Cilliers, a dour-faced Vaalan giant who smiled little and spoke less. He was about the only man in the company who hadn’t switched exclusively to a trench blade, still carrying a double-edged flamberge across his back, the weapon passed down from father to son since before his ancestors had sworn fealty to the Rigun Throne. His frame was too broad to make him much use for covert operations, but we’d be happy to have his sword if we needed to make a stand on open ground.
Years of fighting had turned the once lush landscape into a barren desert. Bombardments, artillery and magical, had destroyed most of the vegetation and all fauna of the non-rodent variety. Even the topography had been altered, explosives leveling hills and thrusting up piles of debris to replace them. Beyond any aesthetic concern, the devastation meant there was little cover to be found. Without faceblack, on a moonlit night we were easy prey for any patrol that came within fifty yards.
We needed to move quick and we needed to move quiet. Unsurprisingly, Adelweid was having difficulty with both of these, his gait more appropriate to a morning stroll than our clandestine mission. I winced every time the light caught on his silver and noticed Milligan doing the same. If one of us got bled because this idiot wouldn’t take his jewelry off, I didn’t think I could stop my men from friendly-firing him. I didn’t think I’d try.
After a quarter mile I leaned in close to Adelweid and whispered, “Four hundred yards. Let us know where to set up.”
He pointed to a low hill and responded in a voice that did little to maintain our stealth. “That will do nicely. Take me there, then deploy the talisman.”
I signaled to Saavedra, and we swung our line toward the mound. I’ll give this much for Adelweid, the bastard knew his craft. No sooner had we reached the top than he pulled a pack of arcane materials out of his bag and began drawing intricate symbols into the dirt with a short branch of black oak. His movements were sharp and natural, and I knew enough of the Art to appreciate that it wasn’t such an easy thing to draw a pentacle in the pitch-black, not when a mistake meant opening yourself up to forces that would fry your brain. In the midst of his work he turned to me. “Continue the mission, Lieutenant. I’ll take care of my end.”
“Private Carolinus-you’re on guard. If we aren’t back in three quarters of an hour, take the sorcerer and return to base.” Carolinus drew his trench blade and saluted. Saavedra went back to point, and the four of us who remained pushed onward into Dren territory.
Two hundred yards and we crested a small incline, its geometry too sharp to be anything but the result of an artillery shell. In the distance I could see the first line of the enemy trenches and the lights of their campfires beyond. Signaling to the men to form on me, I pulled the talisman from a pouch on my armor and dropped it in the dirt, feeling a bit foolish as I did so.
“That’s it?” whispered Milligan. “Just stand on a hill and leave a pebble in the middle of it?”
“Private, shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.” Milligan’s nerves were understandable-this was the part of the mission I had liked least, and I hadn’t been particularly crazy about any of it. On top of this ridge we were easy targets for any Dren patrol that wandered by, and they were a lot closer to reinforcements than we were.
In the dark, in those circumstances, every shadow hides a sniper and every glint of light reflects off steel, so I wasn’t certain I saw anything until Milligan signaled down the line. We grabbed dust, hunkering beneath what little cover we could find. Twenty yards out from the base of our hill one of them noticed us and let out a cry of warning and I knew we were fucked.
Milligan sent off a bolt at the front man, but it went spinning off into the night, and then they were sprinting up the dune and we preparing to meet their charge. Saavedra took the first one and I took the second, and after that it was hard to concentrate on the general arc of the battle, my attention occupied by the particulars.
Mine was young, barely old enough to pleasure a woman, and I winced at his lack of skill. Five years of killing anyone in a gray uniform had overridden any natural aversion toward murdering a virtual child, and my only thought was to finish him quickly. A feint to his side and a counter of his awkward defense and he was down, blood spurting from a killing strike through his abdomen.
It was a good thing I dropped him because it wasn’t going all our way. Cilliers was showing one of the enemy the reason he had never abandoned his ancestral weapon, and Saavedra was his usual self, holding down a pair of Dren with a display of coldly efficient sword work. But Milligan was on his last legs, a squat Dren with a trench blade in one hand and a hatchet in the other steadily pushing him back toward the slope of the hill. I unstrapped a throwing knife and sent it sailing into the back of Milligan’s attacker, hoping it would be enough to even the odds. I didn’t have time to do more, as one of the men facing Saavedra disengaged and came toward me. I hefted my trench blade and drew the battle club that was swinging from my belt.
This one was better, good in fact, and I didn’t need to see the scar that separated his nose into two uneven masses of flesh to place him as a veteran of our conflict. He understood how to kill with a short blade, wary circling interrupted by the rapid exchange of blows, off hand poised to settle the business firmly. But this wasn’t my first tumble either, and my own weapon stayed close on his, and the spiked rod in my left hand waited for an opening.
It came when he overextended trying for a thrust, and I lashed my club against his wrist. He let out an angry scream but didn’t drop his sword. This fucker was tough as pig iron, but his stoicism, while impressive, wasn’t sufficient to save his life. His hand crippled, he couldn’t maintain our pace and a half minute later he was down from a pair of fatal wounds.
For a moment I thought we might even pull it off, until I heard the twang of a bowstring and watched Cilliers’s massive frame topple backward, a bolt feather deep in his breast. Now that it was too late, I spotted the assassin cresting the top of the ridge, reloading his crossbow, while his partner, a hulking Dren nearly Adolphus’s size, flanked him with a wicked-looking spiked hammer. Dropping my mace I took a running start and dove into the bowman, knocking the weapon from his grip and sending the two of us hurtling down the embankment. We struggled as we fell, but by the time we stopped rolling I was on top, and I drove the pommel of my trench blade against his skull, till his hold on me slackened and I was able to reverse my grip and pull the edge sharp across his throat.
I caught my breath, then sprinted back up the hill. When I reached the summit, Saavedra was the only one of us still standing, and barely at that. The Dren giant had him on the outs, the Asher’s intricate style a poor match for the savagery of his opponent. Saavedra’s defenses did, however, provide sufficient distraction for me to close in and hamstring the ogre, nor did my comrade stutter when I provided him an opening, dispatching our remaining enemy with a quick thrust beneath his chin.
The two of us stood staring at each other, then Saavedra slumped to the ground and I realized he had been tagged, a pool of blood seeping through his leather armor. Flinty bastard hadn’t shown it until the combat was over. “How bad is it?” I asked.
“Bad,” he responded, with the same unreadable demeanor that had won him half the unit’s wages. I gingerly removed his armor. He winced but didn’t speak.
Saavedra was right-it was bad. The spiked end of the war hammer had penetrated his intestines. He had a chance if I could get him back to camp. I settled him up against an incline and checked on the rest of my men.
Dead-no surprises. That bolt had done for Cilliers, an inglorious end for such a valiant soldier. I wanted to bring his flamberge back to base, try and get it to his family somehow-he would have liked that, but it was heavy and I would already be half carrying Saavedra.
Milligan’s head had been caved in while I was dealing with the enemy bowman. He was never more than average close in. I was glad at least that we had taken care of the bastard with the hammer. I had always liked the friendly little runt. I had always liked both of them, truth be told.
Saavedra was praying in the dissonant tones of his foreign tongue, the most I had ever heard him speak. It was disquieting, and I wished he would stop but didn’t say anything, unwilling to begrudge a dying man the chance to get right with god.
I crouched down beside the ridge and scanned the horizon. If another patrol showed, we were fucked. I thought about grabbing Milligan’s crossbow, but it was dark and I was never any good with those things. I wished I had some black powder. I wished that jewel would start working.
Minutes passed. Saavedra continued his alien monologue. I started to wonder if a passing Dren unit hadn’t greased Carolinus and the sorcerer, leaving me waiting for a climax that wasn’t coming. Then from behind me I heard a sound for which I had no context, followed by a startled gasp from Saavedra. I turned on my heel.
A wound was forming in the air above the gem, a hole through the universe that bled strange ichor around the edge. I had seen magic before, from the playful chicanery of the Crane to the platoon-killing firepower of a battle hex, but I had never seen anything like this. The rent let loose a high-pitched whistling, almost a cry, and against myself I peered into its depths. Things strange and terrible gazed back at me, vast membranes of eyes swirling in apoplectic frenzy, gaping maws gnashing endlessly in an infinite black void, orifices pulsating erotically, tendrils coiling and uncoiling in the eternal night. The obscene whine babbled to me in a half-intelligible tongue, promising hideous gifts and demanding still more terrible sacrifices.
As abruptly as it began the noise ended, and a black goo leeched through the rift. It dripped from the entrance into reality, bringing with it a smell so foul I had to choke back vomit, a rot deeper than conception and older than stone. Gradually the slime coalesced, shadowy black robes forming around a bone-white outline. Saavedra made a sound somewhere between a shriek and a sigh and I knew he was dead. I caught a glimpse of the thing’s face, broken-glass eyes above rows and rows of sharp teeth.
Then it was gone, floating east toward the Dren line. It moved without visible signs of effort, as if propelled by a force external to its body. The stench remained.
My mind scrambled to regain footing amid the formerly rigid laws of existence. It was touch and go. The knowledge that more Dren patrols lingered in the area-and the suspicion that their sympathy for my mental state as I stood over the corpses of their comrades was likely to be limited-ultimately proved sufficient inducement to get me moving.
A half second of inspection confirmed that Saavedra was no longer living. He was a grim cur, but he had died like a man, and in the end I had no complaint of his conduct or character. The Ashers believe death in battle is their only path to redemption-on that account his forbidding deity had been well served.
There wasn’t time for lamentation; there rarely is. Nine men lay dead, and there would be a tenth to add to the tally if I stayed around much longer. I hooked my trench blade through my belt and headed back to check on the sorcerer.
Adelweid stood at the top of the small dune, his hands planted firmly across his hips, proud as a game bird and twice as pretty. “Did you see it? You must have-you were so near the epicenter. You have been allowed a glimpse into the realms that lie beyond ours, seen the tissue-thin walls between this world and the next separate before your very eyes. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
Slumped against a small gray boulder was Carolinus. A pair of Dren soldiers were sprawled a few feet in front of him, joining their enemy in repose. “What happened to him?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t receive much of an answer.
Adelweid’s reverie broke momentarily. “Who-oh, my guardian. He’s dead.” The sorcerer turned flush toward me now, excitement in his voice, the closest to human I’d yet seen him. “But his sacrifice was not in vain! My mission was successful, and across this shattered plain I can feel my comrades were as well! You are doubly blessed, Lieutenant, for you are privileged to stand watch at the collapse of the Dren Commonwealth!”
When I didn’t say anything, he turned back in the general direction of his creations, watching as the occasional burst of lightning illuminated the landscape. In the distance I could see waves of the things move steadily eastward. Adelweid was right-from far out there was something ethereal and even somehow beautiful about the things. But the memory of that horrible stench, and the sound Saavedra made as his heart went out, were still fresh, and I didn’t share Adelweid’s conceit that what I had seen was anything less than an abomination before the Oathkeeper and all the Daevas.
Then the screams started-a chorus of them erupting from across the Dren line. In combat the sounds of death are mixed with those of battle, the shrieks of the wounded merging with the clash of steel and the eruption of cannon fire. But the final sounds of the Dren were undiluted by any other noise, and a thousand times more terrible for that fact. Adelweid’s smile widened.
I knelt down beside Carolinus. He had done his duty, then bled out while the sorcerer performed horrors in the darkness nearby. His trench blade lay broken at his side and his eyes were open. I closed them and took his damaged weapon in my hand. “Once you’ve summoned these things your job is finished?”
Adelweid was still staring east, at the terrible devastation his creature and its brethren were spreading, something between lust and pride on his face. “Once called, the creatures will complete their missions and then fade back to their world.” He was so engrossed in the carnage that he paid no attention as I took up a spot beside him, and scarcely more when I put Carolinus’s shattered weapon through his exquisitely tailored coat. His scream was subsumed in the sounds echoing off the Dren lines. I withdrew the blade and tossed it aside. Adelweid’s corpse rolled awkwardly down the hill.
I figured somebody was owed for Saavedra and the rest, and if I couldn’t get any higher up the chain, Adelweid would do. And I figured the world would be better off without him.
I slipped back to our lines and reported a successful mission, albeit one with a high casualty rate. The major was not concerned with our losses, neither my men nor the sorcerer. It was a big night, the eve before the final charge that would break the back of the Dren Republic, and there was much to prepare. At dawn I formed my platoon up as part of an all-out attack, the kind that should have taken us ten thousand men to pull off. But their defense was piecemeal, whole sectors of the enemy trenches containing nothing but dead men, bodies contorted horribly, the source of their demise uncertain in the full light of morning. The remaining Dren were too scattered and disheartened to muster much resistance.
That afternoon General Bors accepted the capitulation of the capital city, and the next day he received the unconditional surrender of Wilhelm van Agt, last and greatest Steadholder of the United Dren Commonwealth.
It ain’t the way they tell it on Remembrance Day, and I don’t imagine it’ll ever make the storybooks, but I was there and that was the way the war ended. I got a medal for it-the whole company did for being the first men into Donknacht, beaten gold with a pikeman standing over a Dren eagle. I sold it for a top-shelf bottle of rye and a night with a Nestriann whore. I still think I got the better end of the deal.
When I finished relaying those parts of the story appropriate for public consumption, the Crane poured himself a glass of his noxious medicine and sipped from it slowly, shivering. I’d never seen the Crane frightened. It did not bode well for my immediate future. “You’re sure Adelweid’s monster was the same thing that killed the Kiren?”
“It left a vivid impression.”
“A creature from the outer emptiness, let loose on the streets of Low Town.” He threw the rest of the drink down his throat, then wiped at his lips with a bony arm. “By the Oathkeeper.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“I’ve heard legends. It is said that Atrum Noctal, the false monk of Narcassi, could peer into the nothingness between the worlds, and that the things he saw there would answer when he called. Sixty years ago, my master, Roan the Grim, led the sorcerers of the realm against the Order of the Squared Circle, whose violations of the High Laws were so egregious that all records of their activities were destroyed. But as for direct experience”-he shrugged his narrow shoulders-“I have none. The study of the Art is a twisting path, and one with many branches. Before the creation of the Academy for the Furtherance of the Magical Arts, practitioners learned what their masters had to teach them and studied where their inclinations and talents led. Roan would have no truck with the dark, and though I left his service I have stayed true to his precepts.”
He smiled then, his first since I’d entered. By the Oathkeeper, he was going fast. “For me the Art was never a path to power, or a way to delve into the secrets hidden where nothing living dwells.” His hands began to shimmer with a soft blue light, the glow gradually forming into a scintillating ball that swooped around his arms. He had performed this trick often for me and Celia when we were children, sending the sphere dashing under tables and over chairs, always just out of our reach. “My gifts were for healing and for protection, to shelter the weak and provide respite for the weary. I never wished to be capable of anything else.”