Chapter 36
The cadre of reserve Shields arrived at Protect's tower just after Sol had set. Snow didn't leave the Contegon's side, held her hand and pressured the wound, keeping up as much small talk as one can muster with someone who bled profusely, until they arrived.
Snow had seen death so often it was a part of him, a cosy shadow at the base of every thought, a shawl he could not lift. At his command, Shields fought and fell. He had been in a hundred battles, seen every evil the Disciples could visit. Snow was used to death. But being used to something was not accepting it. Contegon Protect deserved more than to bleed out far from anyone who loved her. Ignoring his bladder and other bodily complaints, he fought against her wound and watched the horizon.
Snow wondered whether Sol's Gift could heal as well as destroy, whether Sol wanted his Acolytes to undo destruction as Sol did during his evening rests. As the Contegon had slowly faded, he cursed this limitation to even an Acolyte’s powers.
His Servant – he preferred that to Spirit – appeared then. Signet's physical form was akin to the necklace it inhabited, a golden sphere surrounded by rays of Sol’s light. The Servant had no eyes but it watched Snow, seemingly offering sympathy for his plight. And though it had yet to speak, its presence made him hopeful that Contegon Protect would survive until help arrived.
By the time the Shields were in sight, Contegon Protect was pale as her robes and her bleeding had stemmed. “Hurry,” he called, using his power to project his voice, “her wick has almost burned.”
The Shields' blue robes were dark under the overcast night. The Field Doctor’s were half-red that showed her status in both Stations. She raced ahead, almost skidded as she fell beside Protect.
“What happened?”
Snow shushed the Contegon when she tried to answer. “Contegon Protect took a bullet to the shoulder, one too deep for me to get safely. I’ve applied pressure to the wound but it has been some time now. She has lost a great deal of blood.”
The Doctor, thirty-something with a shaven head and blonde eyebrows, nodded and gently pulled Snow's hand from the wound. Dark blood weakly spilled forth. The Doctor leant forward but frowned, unable to see in the failing light.
As she reached for a torch, Snow brought Sol's Gift into his palm to provide light.
“Thank you,” the Doctor said. She reached into a Field Doctor's kit far heavier than the tower’s and brought out forceps and a knife. “If you’re going to provide my light, keep it stable.”
“I will.”
The Shields caught up as the Doctor started surgery. Four secured the perimeter, searching the forest with telescopes. Others climbed the tower and used fireworks to signal its defence had been re-established. A young Contegon with a starved look and a short crop of red hair stood behind Snow, too overawed by his display of power to command her cadre, showing she was only fit to look after a back-up cadre.
“Let me provide the light,” she said partway through the surgery. There was a bright flare as she lit a torch. “You should be returning, Acolyte.”
“I don't need a child to remind me of my duties,” he snapped.
“No,” the Field Doctor said, not looking up from her delicate work, “but you need someone to remind you of your manners.”
Snow tutted at himself. “You're right. Forgive me, Contegon, my long wait is no excuse to lash out. I just want to ensure Protect is safe before I return.”
The Contegon acquiesced. “I didn't mean to tell you what to do, sire”
Snow blinked. He was an Acolyte, would soon ascend to one of the most holy and important roles in Geos, but couldn’t stomach people assuming they were in the wrong. He knew he'd been unfair, and so must the Contegon, but she accepted the blame anyway. It was a reminder, one he needed, that power was dangerous to the wielder as well as the victims.
“What will happen to her?” Snow asked the Field Doctor when she had finished surgery. The Shields and Contegon watched Protect's sleeping form as the Doctor was sat away from them, smoking.
“The back-up cadre will look after her until she's recovered. If she’s as able as she was before the attack, she will take over from the young Contegon,” the Field Doctor said. She drew heavily on her cigar. “If she isn’t, or she doesn't recover, Contegon Support earns a promotion. Praise Sol.”
“I didn't mean that.”
“I know you didn’t,” she said kindly. “She will live, don’t worry. Anyway, shouldn’t you get back?”
“I should.”
They remained silent. The Doctor reached into her robes and offered him a swig of something alcoholic. “No, thank you. I haven't eaten in some time. And I should get back, like you said.”
“Fair enough. Sol be with you.”
“His blessings upon you,” Snow said automatically.
He stepped away, gathered Signet's strength, and launched into the air, like a bird, great green wings carrying him up. The ground disappeared, the nearby mountains shrank, and he soared back to his home. Signet flew beside him, serenely matching his pace as he returned to New Call.
New Call wasn't so much a town as the western Front’s brain. Consisting of uncomfortable but portable tents and semi-permanent structures that could be abandoned or collapsed at short notice, it led the Front from forty miles behind the front line. Blazing like hope in the night, unmistakable and undeniable, torches lit the roads for the thousand or so people who called it home. Most of the inhabitants were support and reserve forces, or the Blacksmiths and Chemists and so on they relied on.
Snow circled New Call twice before dropping into a landing place specifically kept clear for him. He touched down delicately and disconnected Signet's power, his wings dissipating like smoke.
Catch was waiting for him in the shadow of the tent Snow called home. “You have been gone for hours,” he shouted, his voice cracking and rattling and dangerous, like a poorly-maintained machine. “That was not a routine patrol, Snow.”
“A tower requested aid. I went to help, as a good Shield should.”
Catch sneered, creasing the claw-shaped scars a Disciple had torn into his face. He shaved his head, but not his beard: those long, dark whiskers flexed as he said, “A good Shield-General shouldn't waste his time with such frivolities.”
Snow smiled. He'd learned that friendliness was the only way to meet his mentor's disapproval. “It’s a good thing, then, that I am not a Shield-General yet: my intervention saved a Contegon's life.”
“But how many Contegons and Shields did your missing five meetings kill?”
Snow rolled his eyes. “They are meetings, Catch: not battles.”
Catch ran forward and stood nose-to-nose with Snow. Snarling, he gripped Snow’s collar, nearly lifting his junior. “You missed the Artificers discussing their iron shortages after a downed ship, meaning we may be short on weapons and armour soon. Something like that should be taken account of, don’t you think?”
“Well, I—”
He shook Snow to shut him up. “You also missed the Doctors begging for space for a herb garden, which would require a reorganisation of New Call. That would hamper the war efforts if it’s done, but could cripple us if it isn’t. You missed Contegon Piety demanding more space for her ministrations, and me having to calm her because she wouldn’t accept she was wrong, being a damn Contegon and all. I made those calls today, but what clues or important details did you miss whilst looking after one Contegon? What reports should you have picked up on as you turned your intellect to trifling matters?
“You can’t measure the damage your absence caused,” Catch said, releasing his grip on Snow's collar. “Every meeting is part of the battle for a Shield-General. How many times do I have to say this? You should be above everything so you can see it all, like Scar's model of Geos.”
Snow closed his eyes: a hundred men and women doomed to be captured at his command flitted into his mind. “I can't do that. I won't.”
Catch tutted and took a step back, clear away from S
now's personal space. “Then you will kill more people than you save. Sol damn you, boy.”
Snow considered flaring his Gift, reminding Catch that he was an Acolyte blessed by Sol, but that would be an abuse of his power that would fail anyway. Besides, Snow suspected Catch was trying to get a rise out of Snow, testing him with his new role only two weeks away.
“I am still an Acolyte,” Snow said, “and so my actions are blessed by Sol. I know that doesn't make me right, not all the time, but I was right to react to a blue firework, Catch. In fact, if I remember right, it's my duty to respond to one as a Shield.”
The elder Shield tutted. From him, that was practically a compliment.
Thinking their exchange done, Snow walked toward his tent. But Catch grabbed his shoulder, stopped him. “Did you at least rescue whoever you went to help?”
“For now. It was tower fifty-one. The Disciples seemed to catch them unaware, ambush them. Only their Contegon survived.” Snow looked his mentor in the eye. “Despite all the training we give our Shields, the Disciples still caught them off-guard. It's as we predicted: the Disciples are learning.”
“Aye,” the old Shield replied, his brown eyes golden in the torchlight. “But, hopefully, so are we.” He sneered at Snow. “Some of us, at least.”