Chapter 39
Contegon Fresh Praise was Element’s fellow Advanced Squad member. Born in the eastern village of Cuff, she’d wanted to protect the eastern Front close to her friends and family. But Sol had other plans, so she was now far from home, leading a cadre of Shields.
The Front was more than its towers: it was a zone Geos had reclaimed, a line that Disciples must not cross. Contegon Praise had expected a cadre immediately, but there was little demand for new Contegons on the western Front. She was lucky to have this cadre after their previous leader had come down with an illness. Fresh had been in the right place to take advantage, and would not allow this opportunity to pass.
The morning's chill was bracing as she stepped before her Shields. A dozen soldiers, scarred and capable, wore weapons and dirty blue robes stained with blood and years of fighting.
“Acquiesce,” Fresh said. “I am a Contegon, and you are my cadre.”
Slowly, ten went to their knees, listening to the white robe more than her. The oldest two did not.
Fresh stepped to the bigger of the two, a brute who looked like he chewed bricks. Fresh was tall herself, but she had to crane to hold his gaze. The huge Shield leant forward, unwavering under her scrutiny. She smiled and punched him in the stomach. He released all his air with an 'oof' and bent over.
“There,” she said with a nod. The other insolent Shield was kneeling, hands in the air.
“Treat me like Contegon Fury, and we won't go wrong,” Fresh said. “We've got a twenty eight mile route ahead and disciplining you every five minutes will only waste time. Do you understand?”
“Yes sire,” they all replied, even the two fools.
“Good. We’re following route four. Move out.”
Much of their day would be spent in the forest. Fresh had grown up amidst farmland and sea, great open plains each, and even at the Academy she was only minutes away from a horizon. All those trees waiting to enclose her made her feel small and encroached. She couldn't help slowing her pace.
“Keep up,” the winded Shield said, 'accidentally' bashing her as he passed.
Fresh growled and charged ahead. She wouldn’t lose her cadre's respect over some overgrown wheat. Any Contegon faced trials and battles to earn their cadre’s trust. Mostly men, Shields often resent taking orders from women, especially ones young enough to be their children. Contegons were taught to face this battle like any other: to win. But Contegons needed these warriors’ confidence without resorting to Sol, because they would face much, much tougher challenges than a few spiteful men.
More than once, Fresh thought it unfair, wrong. It was a primitive and counter-productive attitude. The Shields tacitly encouraged this animosity: after all, they'd only allowed women into their ranks in the last twenty years, and their leadership was filled with the men who fought that move.
Railing against this injustice would change nothing with these brutes: the Contegons could only prove to each Shield individually that they were worthwhile. Fresh would start with these dozen.
Soon, they were under the forest's skin, like cautious parasites. The air was filled with sweet pollen. Strange insects chirruped and chimed as the Shields crashed through untamed undergrowth and over fallen trunks. Fresh hovered around third place in the march, letting the faster Shields lead her on the unfamiliar route, and tried not to show her discomfort at the shadows around her.
Fresh didn't feel swaddled for long: she adapted, able to absorb almost any situation. The mushrooms growing on tree's corpses and hides, the insects hovering over stagnant water, the complex bird's nests built on sturdy branches: all of these interested her, kept her curious as she scanned her surroundings. They were on a patrol, after all, here to halt Disciple activity.
She put her hand on her Baptism, eager to see a Disciple melt into the earth. The Shields had hefty hammers to knock the monsters over, hooked staves to pull them down, or shields thick enough to absorb bullets, but they weren't Baptisms or water in the bladders from her catapult.
Her cadre didn't notice her eagerness. That, or they didn't care to notice it. They ploughed on, their pace just above walking on this uneven ground. As near as Fresh could tell, this route followed a Disciple thoroughfare: close enough to see the well-trodden path, far enough they wouldn't be seen if it was in use. Fresh had borrowed Contegon Fury's muddied robes so she would not stand out, blistering white figure amidst the bark and greenery.
After another hour, she halted the Shields at a secluded dip. “Take ten minutes.”
The Shields secured the area, setting themselves to watch all potential approaches, and broke out water bladders. One Shield, a woman ten years her senior, pointed her bladder at Fresh. “Care for a drink?”
“Sure,” Fresh replied, grateful.
She took the bladder. A waft of something strong enough to strip paint hit her. This was another test. Fresh drank, taking enough to show the Shields she could taste what it was, and swallowed without pause.
“Give me the real stuff, or water,” Fresh said. “Where I come from, the beer is stronger than that.”
The Shields watched her, knowing she knew she'd been hazed. Fresh kept her eye on the Shield with the sense of humour, whose brown eyes darted across Contegon Fury's robes.
“That was a poor show, Year,” another Shield said.
“You didn't even surprise her.”
“Sorry guys,” Year said, breaking into a smile. “I think we might have a proper one here.”
“Yeah, I could've told you that,” the lummox she'd winded said, rubbing his stomach.
The Shields laughed, and a border was crossed. Fresh laughed too, sensing it was time to soften. The Shields chatted easily then. And, as simple as that, Fresh was one of them.
Another hour passed along the banks of the Disciple roads. She learned the Shields' names as they marched and heard just enough about them to endear them to her, and vice-versa. By a small wonder, the lummox she'd struck was also from Cuff. Most of the rest were from Shield families, had joined and survived the Station long before the Second Invasion.
Even during such camaraderie, Fresh was disturbed by the unnaturally straight paths the Disciples had worn, order and simplicity brutally forced onto nature. “They made a board out of the forests,” Year said when they followed a new edge, “like they were playing an enormous game of Squares.”
“Disciples don't play games,” Rival growled. After living through three decades and a dozen Contegons, he was the most qualified to make that statement.
Fresh counted out another hour and a half before she allowed the Shields to rest and eat patrol rations, salted meat and dried fruits.
“Is it true what they say about the Advanced Squad, sire?” Year asked as they ate.
“And what do they say about the Advanced Squad?” Fresh asked.
“That you have to beat one of your teachers in your first year,” she replied.
Fresh laughed. “No! You're a child when you start. You're lucky if you can beat homesickness.”
“Makes sense,” Bastion said, a gruff son of a Miner.
Year looked disappointed. “What makes you Advanced then?”
“A test result, an aptitude, sometimes extraordinary piety.” Fresh shrugged. “Most students are recommended for the Advanced Squad in their first year. Really, the Advanced Squad training whittles down their numbers over the years, rather than elevating our–”
Fresh stopped when a bush nearby rustled. The Shields stiffened, joviality and comfort forgotten, and quietly reached for their weapons. Her breath calm, she gestured for the nearest Shields, Stand and Bow, to follow her. Thick shields raised to prevent surprise attacks, they went to track the source of the noise.
With its broad red-tipped leaves and green spine, the bush looked like it had tasted blood and was eager for more. Sol's light tried to filter through the roof of leaves but the trees greedily claimed it for themselves, refused the cadre more than scraps to see by.
“It was
probably just a fox,” she told herself, not believing a word. It was unlike a Disciple to hide, not take at least one shot, but the monsters were always trying new tactics, so it wasn't impossible.
After a deep breath, she rounded the bush. There was no waiting golden figure, no explosion. However, wide footprints with pad impressions like a large cat's were there, clear webbing between the toes. A long tail trailed behind the creature, displacing the dirt except where it lifted or twitched.
Fresh motioned for the Shields to come forward and pointed to the tracks. As they examined the strange markings, she scanned the area for any sign of the creature that had left them.
“It must be a local creature,” Bow said.
“Some strange creature then, huh?” Stand asked. “I mean, webbing?”
“What's your explanation then?” Bow asked.
Stand shrugged her broad shoulders.
“You've not seen anything like this before?” Fresh whispered.
“No. But then, we've not been this far up Geos for that long,” Bow said. “This could be something that migrates south as the weather warms.”
Her eyes darted to the tracks again. Something about them unsettled her. Then she frowned, counted. “Whatever it is has six feet.”
“So it does,” Stand said after some time. “A really strange creature.”
“Come on,” Fresh said, a chill playing through her. “We'll report this when we get back.”
“It's probably just a weird animal,” Year said after the rest of the Shields had examined the tracks. “Who knows what Moenian's waste could have done to the wildlife? It might have started life as a house cat.”
“Or a yammering Shield,” Rival said.
“I wouldn't worry none, Contegon,” Year said. “The further north we go, the more weird things we're going to see. And we can't report every unusual animal we find, else the Clerics would go mad.” She added, “Madder, anyway. Just ignore it, yeah?”
Her cadre were ready to go, the tracks little more a curiosity to break up the tedium of patrolling. Fresh came round to Year’s way of thinking as she walked, put the tracks behind her to concentrate on her patrol. She was new to the Front, scared by the forest, so her worry might be unjustified. By the time the patrol ended, she'd convinced herself that her worries were unfounded.