Lying by the tracks at night
I dreamed a dream where I was sane.
Some pain’s so deep you just feel numb,
and numbness hurts more than the pain.
“After,” by an anonymous train-chaser
I curl in a canvas seat by the window and watch the terrain race by. The flat desert morphs into steep foothills, and the track banks sharply to the east. Towhawk stronghorses pull the car, heads lowered, hoofbeats shaking the ground. My eyes close.
Somehow, I sleep.
The trainmaster shakes me awake at the Third Terminal. I show him my papers and he points me in the direction of the hostel. We’re on the outskirts of Sojoz. I studied the geopolitics with Pierre-Marie—the capitol city occupies the northern half of the Third Circuit. Filled with medics, farmers, craftsmen, artisans, academics, and bakers, the territory is self-sustaining. Specialized medi-centers and one large university bring wealth and prestige to the land.
Bardic’s eldest sister Dantae and her husband Xaspor are the duchess and duke of Three, but Sojoz has a democratic counsel that checks their power. When Lady War’s titan—the Lord Vandame—inherited this territory, he delegated his reign to elected representation and focused on building hospitals throughout the realm. While the God King’s other heirs watched in horror, he married six members of his cabinet concurrently—four women and two men. He was the only lord to follow in his father’s bigamous footsteps. Royals haven’t done it since, at least not publicly. Simultaneous marriages are believed to water down the incarnates’ spiritual power.
Testimonies paint Vandame as a charitable philanthropist, a loving husband, and a solicitous medic—as well as an angel of Death. Allegedly he killed more patients than he saved—countless Xobrites and believers fell to his scalpel. Pierre-Marie attributed these rumors to a posthumous smear campaign, though he’s been dead for two hundred years.
Sometimes there’s no way of knowing what’s true and what isn’t.
###
I shove my hands in my pockets and walk toward the tall, elegant hostel. At the front desk, I show the matron my papers. She gives me an iron key. The room is on the second floor. There’s a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers, and a coat stand. The washroom has a tub of water. I clean my face and under my arms, and then I lie on the bed and close my eyes.
I’m too tired to sleep.
A commotion kicks up beneath my window. I pull the pillow over my head. The yelling increases in volume, and a woman screams. I can’t ignore it anymore. My room is bathed in light; judging by the sun above the Volterras, it’s around 1800. I grab my sword and throw myself out of the room. The door slams shut behind me.
I take the stairs two at a time and fly past the matron’s desk. In front of the hostel, soldiers assemble on the cobbled street. Two dozen bodies form a ragged line. Half are mounted. One of the horsemen barks out orders.
“We need more steeds, and we need more men!” he yells. “Avery, gather reserves in central Sojoz. We’ll swing through Bathune on our way to Muck Hill and join Staffmaster Belén’s reinforcements—”
“What’s going on?” I ask the swordswoman to my left.
She looks me up and down and snaps into an attentive salute.
“Xobrite brigades are assembling in the lower foothills, swordsmaster!” she says.
Swordsmaster?
Right. I have two titles pinned to my chest.
“At ease.” I touch my chin three times. Her two fingers flick away from her lips—toward me—and she sinks out of her salute. It’s the first time I’ve been on the authoritative side of this exchange. “Has the battle started?”
“No, sir,” she says. “Denmaster Rio says our hussars brought news from frontline analysts. We think they’re waiting for sunset to seize the metallite mines.”
Egad. According to Pierre-Marie, the mines are disputed territory—it’s risky to have our empire rely on lodes nestled against the border. There’ve been countless battles for the province in the past two hundred years, but the Second Circuit has managed to hold onto the lands. If reserves are being assembled as far east as Sojoz, that can’t be good.
“How many fighters are in this den?” I ask.
“Three hundred, sir,” she says. “Officers have rooms in the hostel. Basecamp is a mile south from here—”
“Nestmaster Taylen!” A man in gray leathers—Denmaster Rio?—pulls his horse beside us. “What are you gabbing about?”
She points to my chest. Denmaster Rio looks at my titles. He takes in my wrinkled sweater, my shabby pants, and my bloodstained boots.
“What’s your name, swordsmaster?” he asks.
“Kolton Diable, sir.”
“Do you have a pride or a den?”
Pierre-Marie instructed me on unit names and quantities. One den of sufficient strength has 150 to 500 fighters, two to four prides. One pride has 50 to 125 fighters, two to four nests. One nest has 25 to 40 fighters, two to five packs. One pack has 5 to 20 fighters.
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I have zero fighters.
“Neither, sir,” I say. “I’m—” How do I put it? “—between assignments. Off duty.”
I tug the neckline of my sweater.
“Not anymore, you aren’t,” he says. “I lost a pridemaster in Grelles. Bar fight. Idiot. You’re not stupid enough to get yourself knifed by a drunkard, are you?”
I consider the question, but he doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“Course you’re not!” he says. “You’ve got two titles—good enough for me. Consider this a field promotion. Sterling! Get Pridemaster Ko a mount. All of you, fall in…”
“Wait a minute!” My hands fly to my face. “I’m not qualified…” I start, but the denmaster is already riding away to attend other matters.
An emotion I no longer have the capacity to name stabs my chest. Sterling—a bald, beefy man who must be twenty years my senior—offers me the reins to a golden stallion. The horse nickers. I flinch.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
No one listens to me. What else is new?
I heave out a sigh. The tightness in my chest disappears. I check the bridle buckles and find them fastened. When I stroke the stallion on his nose, he presses his face into my hand. Good boy. I drop the stirrup a few holes, adjust my footing, and swing myself atop the mount.
Pain shoots up my spine. I’m tender and sore in ways I can’t bring myself to think about.
This is going to be a long ride.
Rio orders his packmasters and nestmasters into formation, then turns his horse to face me.
“You good, soldier?” he asks.
“I’ve never been worse,” I say flatly.
“I’ll drink to that.” He grins. “Fall in on my left. Pridemaster Sloan rides on my right. She’s only got one title, but she fights like a demon and you’re an unknown variable. Don’t be offended.”
Why would that offend me?
“We’ll break ranks when we get to camp,” he says. “I need troops to cut through the deadlands and be at Muck Hill within two hours. Can you handle it?”
Absolutely not, but he takes my blank expression and silence as assent.
“Fantastic!” he says. “Deploy your fastest hussar. I need to get a message to the medic.”
“Which medic?”
“Not a medic. The medic. Staffmaster Bardic.”
I stiffen. “Bardic?”
Rio misreads my apprehension. “He’s assembling the murder front, and he has total authority until General Killián gets in.”
Murder front—according to Pierre-Marie, that’s when over five hundred fighters gather in one place. The term is derived from a murder of deadcrows, and there was a time when I joked about the double entendre with Dune and Osyrus. I’m not laughing now—I’m being deployed to the frontline. The alternate meaning has become too real.
“This needed to be in Staffmaster Bardic’s hands yesterday.” Rio hands me a sleeve of grasspaper. “You understand your orders?”
Yes. But I hate them.
I pat myself down. My kitbag is back in my room, but the sword is strapped to my back. My stallion vibrates beneath me, ready to run. Rio barks out more orders and kicks his horse. I fall in at his left-hand side.
I don’t have time to think about any of this. Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to.
###
Camp is broken by the time we arrive. More soldiers than I can count trample by on horseback. The top pack breaks, and the officers move to assemble their prides. I follow Rio until he pulls his reins, and I still my stallion.
“Nestmasters Taylen, Sterling, and Paadrick!” he screams.
Three fighters rush forward.
“This is Pridemaster Ko,” Rio says. “He’s your new kingpin. Take him to your packs, get them into formation, and deploy through the deadlands.”
“Aye, sir!” they chorus.
Taylen flanks me on the right, with Paadrick on my left. Sterling trails. I let Paadrick move ahead as we trot west along the desert road. I nod at Taylen and she steers her steed beside me.
“How many fighters are in our pride?” I ask.
“One hundred,” she responds. “I command the alpha nest. Paadrick has beta, and Sterling fronts delta and gamma. We’re down a nestmaster.”
Of course we are.
She continues to stare at me as we bank west and pass a quadrilateral formation of twenty men.
“Problem?” I ask.
“With all due respect, sir, you’re not clad in appropriate armor,” she says.
“This sweater is an Ivo Lorsan original,” I say. “It’s very soft.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I…don’t see how that’s relevant, sir.”
“I’m not taking it off,” I say. “Can’t risk losing it—I have a friend who would kill me. Do you have an extra fillet?”
She pulls one off her wrist. I yank my hair into a knot at the top of my head. My stallion breaks into a trot, and I almost fall off. I grab his mane until I’m stable.
I pull back the last of my hair as we arrive at the forefront of the assembled pride. K-Pride, I suppose we’re called. Unless there’s another pridemaster in this den whose name starts with K. I decide to call us K2-Pride to be safe. Wouldn’t want there to be any miscommunications.
My nestmasters close in. They look at me expectantly.
“You heard Rio.” I rub the back of my neck. “We’re headed straight through the deadlands. Think we can make it to Muck Hill in two hours?”
Paadrick adjusts his leather helm. “If we push the troops.”
“Get them ready,” I say. “Dismissed. Taylen—who’s your fastest hussar?”
“Lancer Dani,” she says without hesitation. “Want me to send him your way, sir?”
“I have a message for Staffmaster Bardic. Can he make it to Muck Hill by 2130?”
She glances at the sun. “Aye, sir. Maybe sooner.”
I thumb the grasspaper letter sticking out of my pocket. That’s one of my orders down. Now all I have to do is complete the others.
Or die trying.
I know what to do, at least in theory. I spent countless hours in Bathune’s literary center studying tactics, strategy, and the leaders of lore with Pierre-Marie. For the past month, I’ve wanted nothing more than to earn a command of my own.
Now that it’s happening, why do I feel like screaming until my voice gives out?