The girl grinned and Max left them on that hopeful note, continuing to his command tent, a roomy pavilion where he could consult with his officers, plan exercises, and review Tweedy’s innumerable reports. Stepping inside, he splashed some water on his face and fairly collapsed into a pelt-covered chair. Tweedy hopped in after, directing Jack to deposit a heap of documents on a small writing desk. When the boy had departed, the hare hopped onto the opposite chair.
“Did you really mean that?”
“Did I mean what?” replied Max wearily, rubbing his eyes. He found the responsibilities of command—the endless decisions, the posturing, the need to project constant optimism—to be absolutely exhausting.
“That bit about liking our odds,” Tweedy clarified. “Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t need to put on a brave show for me, son,” said the hare. “Prusias can send a mere fraction of his forces and outnumber us ten to one. If he leverages—”
Max cut him off. “It’s not your job to worry about Prusias,” he snapped. “It’s your job to supply twelve hundred troops who are assigned one mile of trench between the outer walls and Old College. You should be worrying about the fact that my archers have only three Zenuvian arrows.”
“And they should be grateful for even that meager allotment,” retorted the hare. “Some shipments have gone missing and the iron’s being rationed out on a miser’s scales. Most has been allocated to the archers on the outer walls.”
“Where there’s war, there’s black markets,” Max reflected. “I’d bet the lutins know where to find some. Sniff around Cloubert’s and see if you can turn anything up.”
Tweedy was appalled. “You want me to descend down into that godforsaken den of vice? I won’t—”
“—let your battalion down,” Max interjected. “If you need help stealing some, get Ajax to help you. I’m guessing he has plenty of …”
“Plenty of what?” grumbled Tweedy, jotting down the order.
Max sat up abruptly. “Madam Petra!” he exclaimed. “If she hasn’t already laid her hands on some, she’ll know where to get it. Do you know who she is?”
“A woman whose striking appearance corrupts our young gentlemen by mere proximity?” the hare said disapprovingly. “Yes, I believe I do. And how shall we pay for these illicit goods—assuming she can acquire them on our behalf?”
“I’ll pay for them out of my own wages,” said Max.
“Very generous of you. But I don’t believe your wages could buy more than a wee ingot or two. Even without a smuggler’s rapacious markups, the stuff’s more valuable than gold.”
Max frowned. “Just make the inquiry,” he sighed. “We’ll figure out how to pay later.”
“Very well,” replied Tweedy, “but I should not think the lady will extend you any credit. For one, black markets are a cash business. For another, it’s my understanding that you already owe the lady an estate on Piter’s Folly.”
“How did you hear about that?” asked Max, reddening.
“A certain smee,” remarked the hare with an amused twitch of his whiskers. “And now, with your permission, we shall turn to the lists.…”
This they did, reading through the lieutenants’ rankings and strategizing how best to train the troops in the least amount of time. Max did not delude himself that they had much to spare; there were already reports that Prusias’s forces were massing near Blyssian harbors and that its shipyards were working at a feverish pace. At best, Max guessed that they had two months, maybe three, until they came under attack. Whether that would be the main assault or merely feints to assess Rowan’s strength remained to be seen. In any case, he wanted his troops to be prepared.
The best gauge of the battalion’s readiness was the combat simulation at the end of each day. It was nearly five o’clock when Max and Tweedy emerged from the tent, rounding the fields and climbing to the top of their observation hill.
“I wonder what the young ladies have concocted,” mused Tweedy, looking down upon the trenches where the units were settling into position.
“Something devious, I hope,” said Max, breathing deep and letting the crisp air fill his lungs. It was a fine evening, the moon a slim crescent in a darkening sky. In the distance, Max heard Old Tom and the faint clamor of another battalion—one of the shoreguard, no doubt—engaged in an exercise of their own. Gazing at a neighboring hill, Max saw Cynthia and Lucia conspiring beneath an oak, making their final preparations.
The attack began with a convoy of Stygian crows. Once Max signaled for the simulation to begin, the demonic horrors came flapping from the southern treetops to swoop down at the entrenched battalion. There were hundreds of them, their screeches filling the air as they wheeled and dove at the troops, leaving bright trails of smoke and flame.
The attackers were met with volley after volley of virtual arrows, slender shafts of green or red light that issued a golden burst whenever they scored a hit. The green shafts represented a normal arrow while red represented those tipped with Zenuvian iron and Blood Petals. While Max was pleased at the flurry of gold flashes, the troops were using far too many of their special arrows. They might well need them for—
The field began to tremble and shake as though an earthquake were occurring. Even as the Stygian crows were dissipating, a hundred ogres came barreling out of the woods. The phantasms were terrifyingly lifelike, bearing down upon the troops at terrific speed with maces and clubs that could crush bone to powder.
But even as archers redirected their fire and the pikemen hurried into formation, another threat appeared. From the woods, a rakshasa emerged—a tusked, tiger-headed demon—wreathed in flames and leading a troop of mounted deathknights. The archers wavered, uncertain whether to direct their fire at the ogres or the hellish cavalry. All semblance of order disappeared; arrows were fired at will with many targeting the fearsome rakshasa. Even worse, most had spent their special arrows on the Stygian crows and thus those that struck the rakshasa and deathknights had little effect. When it appeared that the enemy cavalry would reach the trench before the ogres, the pikemen panicked and broke formation, realizing only too late they had been tricked. At the last moment, the rakshasa and his knights parted ranks and wheeled away from the trench, letting the ogres come roaring through the gap like runaway trains. There were no massed pikes to meet them, only individual weapons at ineffectual angles. The hulking attackers crashed right through the battalion’s line, hardly breaking stride as they stormed through the trenches.
The illusions dissipated and Max groaned. Had the exercise been real, his battalion would have been utterly overwhelmed. When one considered that the units would be spread far thinner over the actual ground they were to defend, the outcome was even more depressing. Shaking his head, Max summoned the officers to his tent.
They crowded inside, sweaty and stinking as they pushed wet hair from their eyes and exchanged glances that spanned the spectrum from angry to sheepish. More than a few glared at Lucia and Cynthia.
“So,” said Max, scanning the group, “what did we learn?”
“That a pair of witches get their jollies by humiliating us,” seethed one hotheaded lieutenant.
“I’m a Mystic, you idiot,” retorted Lucia proudly.
“What’s the difference?” muttered the man darkly. “You should all be strung up.”
“That’s enough,” said Max sharply. “Lucia and Cynthia are here to help us. The exercise tonight was difficult, but not unrealistic. There’s no point to mastering easy simulations—they’ll only get people killed. So, let me ask again. What did you learn?”
“We’ve got to save the special arrows for the true demons,” said Ajax. “Can’t be wasting them on those crows when a regular one will do the job.”
“Good,” said Max. “What else?”
“When that demon came screaming out of the woods, I didn’t know what to do,” confessed a lean, gray-haired woman. “I ordered my archers to fire at it, bu
t maybe they should have kept at the ogres.”
“Same thing with my infantry,” said another. “Pikes pointing every which way and I’d say half were about to flee, illusion or no illusion.”
“Which is why you should be thanking these two,” said Max, gesturing toward Cynthia and Lucia. “If and when the Enemy comes, your soldiers won’t be seeing these things for the first time. Our job is to hold the line, and the only way we’ll do that is if we keep our heads.…”
For the next hour, Max discussed tactics and how to prioritize their targets and subdivide responsibilities among their units should they face intense and varied opposition. Sarah was particularly helpful, drawing diagrams on large sheets of paper and soliciting input from each so that even the surliest lieutenants were soon volunteering their mistakes and voicing suggestions for improvement. Only Umbra remained silent, keeping to the rear where she listened and watched.
“We won’t do it all in a day,” Max said, ignoring Umbra’s implacable stare and rising to dismiss the rest. “Tomorrow we’ll match the soldiers with their new training partners based on your rankings. The simulation will emphasize using Zenuvian arrows on the proper targets. If we’re all very nice, perhaps Lucia won’t send another rakshasa.”
“I make no promises,” she replied, eliciting a general laugh.
“All right,” said Max. “See that your troops are fed and get a good night’s rest. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”
They filed out, but Max’s friends remained. They sat on three of the many cushions piled about the tent. Lucia retrieved Kettlemouth, who had been lounging in his little cage covered by a silk kerchief. She let him climb out, and he settled sleepily on her lap.
“That was quite a simulation,” said Max, pouring himself lukewarm coffee. “Next time, warn me if there’s going to be anything like a rakshasa.”
Lucia gave an indifferent shrug. “You said you didn’t want to know.”
“Did the arrows work properly?” asked Cynthia. “I was concentrating on the illusion.” It was Cynthia who had devised the spell that allowed the soldiers’ ordinary weapons to shoot the tracer bolts of light, an ingenious mixture of enchanted phosphoroil that was dabbed on the front of each bow before the simulations. Other battalions had already borrowed the recipe and incorporated it into their own training.
“They were perfect,” said Max.
“We’re going to need more Zenuvian arrows,” said Sarah pointedly. “Three per archer just aren’t enough.”
“I take it that’s my cue,” muttered Tweedy grumpily. Giving Max a halfhearted salute, he hopped out of the tent.
“We’re also going to need more Mystics,” Sarah added, looking puzzled at the hare’s sudden departure. “I know we’ll have these two, but we have a mile of trench to cover. Sarah and Lucia won’t even be within hailing distance of one another.”
“Mystics are in high demand these days,” said Max. “We’re lucky we have these two.”
“You should ask David to enlist with us,” said Lucia.
Max laughed. “Don’t you think every battalion would love to have David Menlo?”
“I’m sure they would,” said Sarah. “But we have Cynthia. If she asks him …”
Cynthia’s broad, pale face flushed red as a tomato. “I—I have asked,” she confessed. “He’s busy studying that creepy-crawly thing. And besides, the Director’s asked him to be our navy.”
“How is David going to be our navy?” asked Sarah.
“By destroying every Enemy ship that approaches these shores,” said Cynthia proudly. “And don’t you think he can’t. My David can do anything.”
“Your David?” Max clarified.
“Yes,” said Cynthia, steadfastly ignoring Lucia’s giggles. “He wrote me a poem that told me how he felt. He’s absolutely wonderful and we’re now a steady item.”
“A steady item,” repeated Max, blinking.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “Don’t look so astonished.”
“I’m not,” he said. “Scratch that—I am. Not that he’s with you, of course, but I … I didn’t know David wrote poetry!”
“He doesn’t, but the smee helped,” explained Cynthia. “I don’t mind. David said that smee was very helpful at getting him to sort through and acknowledge his special feelings.”
Max’s mouth fell open.
“That’s a winning look,” she remarked. “And if you …” Cynthia trailed off, her attention drifting to the tent’s opening where Julie Teller was poised, looking awkward and hesitant. Julie was dressed for travel, wearing a gray overcoat and a white cap that showed her auburn hair to great advantage.
“I was wondering if you had a moment,” she said, looking at Max.
He nodded, ignoring his friends as their eyebrows lifted in unison. Easing up from their cushions, they slipped discreetly out of the tent. Only Lucia paused at the exit.
“Should we send for the smee?” she inquired innocently.
Max glared at her.
Even when they had gone, Julie hovered at the tent’s entrance, gazing about at the maps and diagrams, battered shields, and muddy pelts strewn upon the floor.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked.
“I—I shouldn’t,” she stuttered. “People will gossip. Maybe we could take a walk instead?”
Grabbing a lantern, he followed her outside into the crisp night, pulling his cloak about him and inhaling the wood smoke that drifted across the campus. The Euclidean Fields were smooth once again, the trenches having been leveled so that the whole field looked like an enormous slab of damp clay that gleamed beneath the moon. The bonfires were still burning, however, and many of the Trench Rats still lingered by them, roasting sausages, gambling, or singing along as one of them played a fife.
Staring at the scene, Julie shook her head with mild disbelief. “So much has changed,” she said wistfully. “I watched you play soccer here on All Hallow’s Eve when you were just a First Year. You beat the Second Years almost single-handedly. Do you remember?”
Max smiled and nodded.
“And now I hardly recognize this place,” she said, gazing about. “It’s all been swallowed up by mud and blood and everything else. No one plays soccer anymore.”
“Did you come here to talk about soccer?” prodded Max.
Shaking her head, she took the lantern from his hand and made for a path that wound along the woods. Max fell into step beside her.
“I—I came to say that I’m sorry,” she said. “I want to apologize for my behavior when I last saw you. I said some awful things … inexcusable things.”
“Please don’t worry about that,” said Max gently. “I deserved it, and I know you didn’t really mean them.”
“I appreciate that,” she murmured. “I also wanted to say goodbye.”
“Where are you going?”
“Glenharrow,” she answered. “Tonight. Thomas and his family are coming with us. It’s too dangerous for us to remain here with my little brother. And my parents aren’t soldiers, Max. They’re too frightened to stay, and they need me to protect them.”
“I understand,” said Max. “Glenharrow sounds like a good choice. Nigel sent his family there this morning.”
“At least I’ll know someone,” she sighed. “How are things with your troops? Everyone’s talking about Max McDaniels and his Trench Rats.”
“They’re coming along,” he said. “A work in progress.”
“I was proud when I’d heard you signed up with them.” Her voice choked with emotion. “Those people have had a hard go of it. They need someone like you, something bright on their side.”
She stopped and gazed up at the stars, shining far above.
“When I was six, my grandmother told me a tale about a maiden who was courted by both the Aurora and the Polestar and had to choose between them,” she recalled softly. “The Polestar was constant; every evening she could find him in the night sky, twinkling at her from the very same
spot. Plain, but predictable. But the Aurora was simply spellbinding, a swirl of mysterious lights and mists that made her ache with longing. Utterly smitten, the maiden spurned the Polestar and chose the Aurora.”
“And did she choose wisely?” asked Max.
“Of course not,” said Julie. “While the Aurora was beautiful and glamorous, he was inconstant. Unlike the Polestar, the Aurora never stayed for long—he was wont to disappear and the maiden could never be certain if and when he would return. Eventually she withered away from loneliness, forever staring into the heavens and hoping the Aurora would return.”
With a teary smile, Julie took his hand.
“I’ll never forget the day I fell in love with you,” she said. “It was during that very soccer match. You were like a god, so swift and dashing—almost radiant. When I looked at you … it was like fingers running through my soul. But something in you changed after you went off to the Sidh. Something had awakened, something grand and terrible and far too great for little Julie Teller. And when your father died … well, I knew I’d lost you forever.”
Max began to speak, but Julie squeezed his hand.
“I won’t be that girl in the story,” she insisted. “Thomas is not a hero, Max, but he’s smart and kind and constant. I’m the most important thing in his life and always know just where I stand. I’ve come to learn that there’s real value in that—a value greater than any infatuation.”
“Thomas is a very lucky guy,” said Max. “I suspect he knows it.”
“He does,” she said, fumbling for a handkerchief. “He knows I’m here with you. He encouraged it, told me I should say my piece and put things to rest. I guess I’ve done that.”
“I guess you have,” said Max, hugging her. “I wish you both all the joy and happiness in the world.”