Wendell saw only the rising and falling glow of his pipe, and within each pulse of orange, the last moments of battle now almost a week gone by.
Embers flared, and . . .
Wendell staggered upright, muscles working out of habit more than any conscious intent, to peer over the ramshackle—and now badly holed—bulwark of rubble. Whole swathes of street were soot-blackened and choked with debris. Buildings, already undermined and pounded by the firefight, had folded in on themselves, heaped like a giant’s discarded laundry. Body parts, to say nothing of smears and gobbets that might have been body parts, lay strewn over the tracks, plastered to the sides of any nearby walls still standing . . .
Pungent smoke puffed from the bowl, a tiny dust-devil swirling before Wendell’s eyes . . .
He watched as Benwynne rose—bloody-faced and cinder-stained, but not severely injured, thank Morrow!—scrambled over the wall and dropped into the midst of a chain gun crew now consisting entirely of shrapnel-riddled corpses. Shouting something he couldn’t begin to make out, she opened fire on the surviving enemy forces . . .
Leaves crackled and curled, the orange luminescence faded to a negligible glow . . .
Shepherd fired a last burst into the nearest occupied structure, continuing until its chain gun spun nothing but empty barrels. Hefting its shield, it barreled through the weakened stone, smashing mercenaries with aegis and spent firearm alike. Wolfhound literally vaulted the makeshift bastion, knocking additional stone tumbling down both sides. Axe raised high, it plunged after Shepherd, and the sounds of slaughter redoubled.
Wendell began to chew on the pipe stem. His breathing hastened, the ebb and flow of the embers grew to a more rapid pulse . . .
“. . . half-score men, Master Sergeant. And twice that many who need days of medical attention.”
“Gods, Benwynne . . .”
“I expect to lose people once we actually engage, Wendell, but in Bainsmarket . . . ?”
Snapping leaves, swirling smoke . . .
“. . . just nothing I can do. If I had weeks to spare and a fully functioning workshop, I might salvage enough pieces to save some coin on building a brand new Charger chassis, but that’s it. The cortex is cracked. I’m sorry, Sergeant. Bulldog’s gone.”
The pipe blurred behind a sheen of unshed tears. It was stupid—more than stupid, disrespectful—to grieve more over a machine than over the trenchers Cadmoore had lost, but . . .
“. . . no trace of the bastard. Nothing!”
“There’s a lot of rubble left to dig through!” Gaust protested. “He could be buried somewhere down there, under all that stone and furniture! We might have gotten him!”
“No.” The sergeant’s tone was flat, hard as stone. “Maybe he was injured, maybe he just felt the battle wasn’t worth the risk. He’s not here because he decided to withdraw, not because we came anywhere near ‘getting him.’”
“Ben . . .” Gods, he wanted to give her, Gaust, the others some hope. “Anything’s possible. He could be dead . . . Finally . . .”
“Do you honestly believe that, Master Sergeant?”
And all he could do was sigh . . .
Groaning, his joints creaking, Wendell straightened and leaned back, popping his spine and shoulders. He thought he’d known exhaustion, thought he’d felt it after any number of battles, prepping for any number of missions.
He’d had no idea.
Technically, he should be heading back out there, return to overseeing the work crews, but he just didn’t have it in him. He felt as though, if he were to topple over the parapet this instant, he might well lack the energy to complete his fall to the bottom.
No more, not today. He emptied his spent pipe against the merlon, leaving a small stain of ash and soot between the crenellations, already beginning to disperse in the breeze. Time to head downstairs—even the thought of the steps filled him with something approaching existential dread—call on the benefits of rank, and requisition himself at least six straight hours of sleep.
A stranger, clad in thick wools and scuffed leathers, carrying a satchel on one shoulder and wearing the brass horse-head pin of the Pan-Midlunds Courier Association, met him roughly halfway down the staircase.
“Master Sergeant Habbershant?”
“Not now.” Wendell made to push past him, but the messenger skillfully shifted just far enough to prevent it.
“You’re a hard man to locate, Master Sergeant.”
“I said not now.” The mechanik reached out, scooted the courier over by the shoulders, and resumed his descent. “It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. Or else talk to Sergeant Bracewell. I am officially unavailable for—”
“Master Sergeant? Contingency.”
“Gods damn it!!”
Both men stood for a few heartbeats, equally shocked by Wendell’s exhausted outburst. Feeling the weight of every one of his years, and a reserve regiment besides, he squeezed his eyes so tightly shut his entire visage crinkled into a parchment-like topography of wrinkles and crags.
“All right. What’s happened, and what does the CRS want from me?”
“We’d better find somewhere more comfortable—and private—to speak, Master Sergeant. This might take some explaining.”
***
Cadmoore, Dalton, and, of course, Bracewell looked immaculate. Uniforms crisp, eyes alert, no hair out of place. Though it lacked some hours yet until dawn, though all three bore an exhaustion and grief so heavy their shoulders threatened to buckle under the strain, they maintained themselves, in all visible ways, as professional soldiers ought.
Corporal Gaust had, contrarily, made an effort that couldn’t even aspire to “half-assed.” His coat and pants were rumpled, very much as though they’d been dropped in a corner for the night. His gaze was bleary, and his hat couldn’t hide the way the pillow had mashed his hair against the left side of his scalp.
And still, he wasn’t the most slovenly present. Habbershant’s beard was wild and spiky, his neck and cheeks unshaven, the bags under his eyes roomy enough to have packed a change of clothes. It was inexcusable at the best of times, let alone when he himself had called this small-hour assembly. Under most circumstances, he’d have been deeply ashamed to stand before the others like this.
Today, he just couldn’t be bothered to care.
“All right, Master Sergeant.” Benwynne leaned forward, palms pressed to the table that was the only real feature of the chamber they’d borrowed. “What in Morrow’s name is so blasted urgent that it couldn’t wait for a decent hour?”
Wendell opened his mouth, closed it. Gods, he didn’t want to do this!
“Our mission’s changed,” he finally forced out. “We need to leave tomorrow for Fisherbrook.”
Four faces stared at him all uncomprehending. He might as well have been speaking Khurzic.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Atherton said, his words contorting themselves painfully around an abrupt yawn, “but I’m way too tired for this.”
“Habbershant . . .” Benwynne began.
The mechanik raised a hand, forestalling her objection. “Earlier tonight, I was approached by a man whom I took to be a Pan-Midlunds courier. Turned out that was only his cover; he identified himself, via pre-arranged code word, as being Reconnaissance Service.”
That, at least, was enough to wake Atherton, and to fully capture everyone else’s attention. Benwynne’s whole expression darkened. “Why would they arrange for you to—”
“Please, Sergeant.” He tried his damnedest not to wince. He’d foolishly hoped she wouldn’t ask that, even though he’d known—known—she would. “Another moment or two.”
She nodded stiffly.
“Magnus’s efforts weren’t confined to Bainsmarket, though this was certainly the linchpin of his operation. Apparently, he also had people sabotaging or attacking river ports, crossings, and boats up and down the Dragon’s Tongue.”
“He really meant to cut us off from the northern fron
t, didn’t he?” Serena mused.
“He also,” Wendell continued, “either got luckier than he could ever have imagined, or he has intelligence sources deeper than we ever imagine. Probably the former, but . . .
“In any event, one of the riverboats his people shelled was transporting the CRS unit assigned to Baron Halcourt’s extraction from Leryn.”
Even as she scowled at the news, Benwynne nodded a second time. “I see. I assume our task has something to do with assisting the replacement team into position?”
“Sergeant . . .” He took another deep, steadying breath. “We are the replacement team.”
It was a sign of just how tired they all were, that Atherton, Roland, and Serena all began speaking at once. It took only a moment for Benwynne to shout them down, but before she could articulate questions of her own, Wendell had started up once more.
“The CRS is stretched as thin as everyone else right now. The time required to assemble, brief, and prepare another team, to say nothing of getting them anywhere near to Llael, is problematic at best. When you add in the facts that our northern rail lines were all damaged in Magnus’s attack, and that Khadoran forces are already cutting off many of the routes to Leryn . . . We were the diversion; now we’re the primary, starting today.”
“Slow down, Master Sergeant. In fact, halt completely. There’s no bloody way.”
“Sergeant Bracewell—”
“No. I still have wounded. I haven’t even had the chance to begin requisitioning a replacement ’jack.”
“Sergeant—”
“And we are not Reconnaissance Service!” The entire table juddered beneath her fist; Wendell couldn’t help but jump. “I need to confirm these orders with Commander Nemo—or better yet, talk him into changing them.”
“Because he took to you so well last time . . .” Atherton stage whispered.
Benwynne pummeled him with a glare only slightly less forceful than his own runebullets. “We are not the team for this! We’re not spies, we’re not infiltrators. We’re sure as hell not subtle enough to enter a city unnoticed!
“To say nothing,” she added, visibly calming herself, “of the political ramifications. A secret effort to extra Halcourt is one thing, but an open military presence? His Majesty would be fielding protests from nobles and generals for months!”
“I recognize all that,” Wendell assured her. “So does CRS. It doesn’t matter.
“There’s more to this than Halcourt, Sergeant. The whole mission was a double-blind. The operation we were covering for? It’s legitimate, but it’s also concealing a third—an objective more important than the baron and all the political backlash that goes along with him. Accomplishing that mission, I’m told, is vital to state security and the war effort.”
“And that would be what, precisely?”
Wendell shrugged helplessly. “I don’t actually know. They didn’t trust the courier with that. That’s why we’re going to Fisherbrook. The CRS team was supposed to meet a contact there; I’ve been given a general description, and the necessary code phrases to confirm identity. He’ll be able to brief us on the specifics.”
For a few brief eternities, Sergeant Bracewell ground her teeth, presumably chewing on the thoughts behind them. Until, finally . . .
“No. I’m sorry, Habbershant. You know that I don’t distrust you . . .” Her tone, however, suggested a possible change forthcoming in that regard. “. . . but there are too many unknowns. This whole ludicrous, desperate scheme came to us outside the chain of command, from a messenger we don’t know, given orders by Morrow alone knows—”
“Sergeant, please. We have to—”
“I told you,” she snapped at him, “we don’t answer to CRS, and we are not moving until I get all this sorted out!”
“Then I’m sorry, Benwynne. I truly am.” He felt his throat try to close on him, hoped his voice wouldn’t crack. “I’m exercising my prerogative as senior officer present and temporarily assuming command of the squad.”
Atherton, all signs of sleepiness gone, lunged across the chamber almost before the mechanik had finished speaking. “You right bloody bastard!” Had the gunmage come armed, Wendell wasn’t sure he’d still be breathing. As it was, only the combined efforts of Serena and Roland, both of whom made a desperate grab, kept Atherton from physically leaping the table.
And while neither of them spoke, the open fury and nascent hatred they glared his way suggested that it wouldn’t take much for them to let the younger corporal go.
“Wendell . . .” Everyone froze, straining to hear their sergeant’s words, softer than they’d ever. “Why are you doing this?”
God, he’d almost rather blind himself than have to see her face right now! “Because I do answer to CRS.”
Low growls from the corporals, but Benwynne only shrugged shallowly, as though it was the answer she’d expected.
“You don’t have to go along with this, Sergeant,” Roland insisted. “You have authority as commander of record. You can fight this, or at least insist on official sanction. We’ll stand by you.”
“Or,” the gunmage added darkly, “we can put Habbershant out of commission long enough for you get this straightened out.”
“No,” she said firmly, body going rigid. “I have my duty, you have yours, and we all know it. Get your units prepared to move out, as the Master Sergeant ordered.”
“Sergeant—” Serena and Atherton said together.
“Don’t interrupt me. I want everyone equipped for . . .” She stopped, spoke over her shoulder without turning. “If we’re heading to Fisherbrook, I assume we’re traveling by river, sir?”
“Yes. It’s out of our way, but that’s where the CRS team’s contact is expecting to meet them, so—”
“Right. Everyone equipped for a brief river expedition. Corporal Gaust, since your commandos require the least time to prepare, you’re responsible for locating us a craft that can carry the whole squad. You’re authorized to pay fair wages, but if anyone tries to milk us or nobody volunteers, you’re also authorized to requisition a vessel under military authority.”
“Sergeant—” Atherton tried again.
“Any of the wounded who aren’t battle-ready in a couple of days are to be remanded to the care of the Bainsmarket garrison. Dismissed, corporals; get to it!”
Wendell felt himself shrink, aging a decade or so, beneath the weight of their combined stares as they departed.
“Benwynne . . .”
She spun on her heel to face him, stiff as a rifle barrel. “Yes, Master Sergeant, sir!”
“I didn’t want you to find out like this. I’ve never been disloyal to you. Never.”
“And if CRS had ordered you to be, sir?” Then, when Wendell didn’t answer instantly, “I see, sir.”
“No, you don’t . . . Ben, this is temporary. As soon as we’re on the mission proper, all command reverts to you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still—”
“Will that be all, Master Sergeant, sir?”
“Please don’t speak to me like you don’t know me. I—”
“Because, sir, if that’s all, I have a great deal of preparation to oversee to make your squad ready.”
Wendell closed his eyes. “Yes, Sergeant, that’ll be all.”
“Thank you, Master Sergeant, sir!”
Footsteps, a slamming door. And only when he knew he was utterly alone did Wendell slump into the nearest chair and bury his face in his hands.
By the time she and her two fellow knights arrived at the gates of Leryn, Katherine Laddermore was so haggard and travel-worn that, without her armor, she could have convinced absolutely no one that she was either a Storm Knight or a noblewoman of Cygnar, let alone both.
A nightmarish cycle of chaotic days and sleepless nights, drenching river foam and biting winds, along with the occasional storm of sleet, snow, or argument and recrimination, the journey had been far more trying than many pitched battles. She and her companions, Privates Sadler and Pr
uscott, had been forced to commandeer a civilian riverboat. Even had any military craft been available, rather than already occupied in lugging troops and supplies to the front, using one might have tipped off unwanted observers to the importance of their journey.
Esmond Cottswell—the bearded and weathered captain of Whitewater Caress, and the most stereotypical river boatman one could ever hope to meet—had been only too happy to provide transport for the three knights once he knew they were willing to pay fare wages rather than press his crew into service. He’d become rather less happy to learn that they weren’t disembarking at Merywyn, but meant to sail the length of Llael; and he all but blew like a faulty boiler when Katherine informed him that he’d be running Whitewater Caress day and night, nonstop, until they reached Leryn.
She’d stood fast, weathering screaming tirades about the danger of night travel on the river; shrugging off appeals to take pity on the men, who—even working in shifts—would be half-dead from exhaustion by the end of such a journey. And Cottswell’s insistence that the steam engines couldn’t take round-the-clock operation for that long resulted only in Laddermore bringing one of her unit’s mechaniks along to help maintain the equipment.
Only once she’d made it quite clear that Cottswell could either agree to these terms and be paid for his troubles, or find himself conscripted to make the run anyway, had he agreed—between vile curses and empty threats—to cast off. But neither he nor his crewmen had missed a single opportunity, during their mad rush, first up the Black River and then the Oldwick, to remind Katherine of their displeasure. Every discussion became an argument; every meal was ill-prepared; amenities became unavailable or vanished from cabins. They even, at one point, ceased checking in on the mounts stabled in the cargo hold. That particular protest ended the night Laddermore burst into the mess, slugged the first mate almost hard enough to break his jaw, and absconded with his own dinner to feed to the horses.