He squeezes my hand and pulls back. “Paralyzed from the waist down,” he says, slapping one thigh. “An enemy bullet. These useless hunks of meat will never operate the pedals again.”
I let out a soft sigh. “Rod—”
“No, no,” he cuts me off, as if I am his little sister. “I will not be defeated by a mere bullet. Selvie says she can create a mechanism that will let me operate the flaps with my elbows. I will fly again, or my name is not Rodrigo.” He rolls his eyes at my stricken expression. “Don’t be such a downer. We are alive, my friend, and that is what is important.”
I can see a pain in his eyes, though he hides it well. I am surprised that his optimism has survived the crash, but grateful for it. “Where are we?” I ask.
“In Bava,” he answers. “One of those officers’ hospitals.”
“How did we end up here?”
Rodrigo’s face sours. “You met Marie?”
I bristle at the name, the betrayal still hot in my memory. “I did.”
“She is an old lover of mine. Years ago, a torrid affair,” he says, waving it off, “but her father is a general. Seems she pulled some strings.”
“So we have you to thank for this?”
“Me?” he scoffs. “I’m surprised I made it back in one piece. Our last separation was not a pleasant one. No, it turns out she’s taken a shine to you.”
I feel like I should be flattered. “She betrayed us,” I say bluntly.
Rodrigo’s face is somber. “Let it go,” he says seriously.
“How?”
“Not how,” a voice interrupts. “That is your own problem. Why might be a better question.” Marie stands in the doorway. She is both prettier and older than I first expected. Her hair has been freshly cut and her uniform is clean and sharp. Despite our location, she wears a pistol at her belt.
I stiffen. Rodrigo turns white and ducks his head. “I should go.”
“Please do,” Marie says.
“No, stay,” I utter at the same time.
Rodrigo wheels his chair, one-handed, past Marie. She makes no move to help him though it is clear the motion is very painful. She watches him go coldly, then turns back to me.
“You and I should talk,” she says, closing the door. I remain tight-lipped, stubborn. She doesn’t seem to care. Rodrigo says she’s taken a shine to me, but there is absolutely no indication in her demeanor. “You need to forget what happened up in the mountains.”
“I see no reason to.”
“The operation was sanctioned by high command.”
“What operation?” I ask. I’ve been putting the pieces together in my head, and I think I have a pretty good idea by now, but I want to be sure.
Marie pulls a chair over beside my bed and sits down. She is still distant, cold, but I sense this is meant as a gesture of trust between us. I don’t buy it. She says, “For five months, Commander Paco and I have been organizing a false mass-defection. It has been a colossal effort of misinformation that included fooling some of our own generals. It was an enormous risk, but we desperately needed that air base intact.”
“You could have told us about it,” I say. “You could have given us a part to play.”
“We couldn’t find you.”
“We got radio communications from you all the time! And Rodrigo was in Bava almost every other week!”
“The radio was too risky, and Paco thinks that Rodrigo is a loose-lipped fool. Besides, Gift Horse had to look genuine. If we gave you the chance to set up an ambush it might have tipped off the enemy before we had taken their base.”
Gift Horse. A code name for handing my platoon over to the enemy as a distraction. It is a bitter pill.
“You got most of my platoon killed.”
“And saved almost all of the strike force in the process. It was a distasteful strategy, but I would do it again in an instant.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I demand.
“Not in the least.” She lowers her voice until her tone is almost gentle. “Teado, your friends did not die for nothing. I’m sorry it had to happen like it did.”
“I won’t forget it.”
“Why not? This is war. We forget things which are inconvenient to remember. Just like I will forget the grenade I dove on when you attacked a government strike force.” She unbuttons the front of her shirt and pulls it down. Her chest is crisscrossed with week-old scars, the skin barely beginning to heal. I remember the grenade I tossed over my shoulder during my mad scramble to escape Paco’s camp.
She buttons her shirt back up. “No one died,” she says. “I was Changed at the time so it didn’t do any permanent damage, but Paco still wanted you court-martialed.”
I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck and almost laugh. After all this, will I get shot by my own side?
“I won’t allow it to happen,” she continues. “Unfortunately, I had to paint you as a hero to get high command to ignore the whole thing. It wasn’t hard. With no warning your platoon almost destroyed an enemy strike force five times your number. And you . . . well, that was a pretty bit of fighting.”
“A hero, huh? Am I supposed to be grateful?” I am taken aback, my breast swelling with conflicting emotions.
She snorts. “Yes, in fact. You are. But I’ll give you a few weeks to come around to it.” She stands up, adjusting her uniform and giving me a tight-lipped smile. “In the meantime, I expect you to enjoy the hospitality here and get better. The remnants of your platoon are expected to be healed and ready for duty within eight weeks.”
This declaration is like a punch to the gut. I should have expected it, but . . . “You’re going to split us up?” After all we’ve been through, I don’t think I can bear to be assigned to a whole new platoon.
Marie shakes her head. “No. You’ll be joining my platoon.”
More conflicting emotions. “Even Bellara?” I can’t imagine that anyone in the military command would allow two Changers and a Smiling Tom in a single platoon.
“Even Bellara,” Marie confirms. “I have use for such an experienced group. I’ll make sure you don’t go to waste. That is, if the war is still going once you’ve healed.”
I am looking at the wall now, feeling distant and confused, but this last sentence brings my head around. “What do you mean, if the war is still going?”
Marie comes around to the other side of the bed. Her face draws close to mine, and I see suddenly that the coldness is a mask. Her expression softens, her eyes mellowing. “I don’t believe in half measures, Teado. I agreed to that mission, including Gift Horse, because the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. We may have ended the war.”
My breath catches in my throat. I am instantly suspicious, because I’ve heard promises of peace since I was a child. “From the capture of one base?” I ask.
“It was a vital piece of the enemy’s attack corridor in this region.” Marie glances toward the door, and her voice is merely a whisper. “No one wants war anymore, Teado. The capture of the air base shows we still have some bite, and that gives us leverage. Talks have already begun.” She stands up, clearing her throat. “But you haven’t heard any of that.”
I do not respond. I am stunned. Peace, in my lifetime? Could it really be possible? I want to ask more questions, but Marie exits as quickly as she arrived. I am left open-mouthed, flapping like a fish, when Bellara enters the room.
It seems like she’s been waiting for Marie to leave. She crosses to my bedside and immediately snatches me into a fierce hug. I feel a terrible pinch in my wrist and try not to squeal from the pain. She finally lets me go and pulls back. Her eyes are sad, but she smiles and kisses my cheeks, then my lips.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“For saving Rodrigo,” she replies. “And me, and Selvie, and everyone else.”
I swallow. “I couldn’t save everyone.”
“You saved the ones you could.”
There is an awkward silence, and I feel
like I should say something. Nothing comes to mind. I feel the knot between my shoulders begin to fade, realizing that Bellara has given me an absolution that I didn’t know I sought. I take a deep breath, but Bellara shakes her head. She closes the door, and returns to me, climbing into the tiny hospital bed. The movement brings pain.
I do not object.
“What are . . . ?” I begin to ask.
She puts a finger against my lips and lays her head on my shoulder. We lie quietly for several minutes and I am about to speak again when I smell something strange.
It takes me a few moments to place the scent. It smells of spring wildflowers in the lower Bavares, the scent of soil laid bare to the world after the melting of the snow. I hear birdsong, startling me, and when I look for the source of the sound I am no longer in a hospital in Bava. I lie on a grassy, lowland field, the dark green of wild pastures splashed with the brilliant colors of spring spread out for as far as the eye can see. A brook bubbles nearby.
My bed is now a patterned sheet laid on the dewy grass. There is a picnic basket at our feet.
I look down at Bellara. Her head is still on my chest, her eyes closed. I know this is an illusion, but it feels so real I want to cry. Bits of propaganda float through my head—admonitions against wasting sorcery on anything but the war effort. I discard them and put my good arm around Bellara, and allow myself to fade to sleep with dreams of peace.
About the Author
Photograph by Emily Bischoff
BRIAN McCLELLAN is an American epic fantasy author from Cleveland, Ohio. He is known for his acclaimed Powder Mage universe and essays on the life and business of being a writer. Brian now lives on the side of a mountain in Utah with his wife, Michele, where he writes books and nurses a crippling video game addiction.
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BOOKS BY BRIAN MCCLELLAN
THE POWDER MAGE
Promise of Blood
The Crimson Campaign
The Autumn Republic
Forsworn
Servant of the Crown
Murder at the Kinnen Hotel
In the Field Marshal’s Shadow
The Mad Lancers
Ghosts of the Tristan Basin
THE GODS OF BLOOD AND POWDER
Sins of Empire`
Wrath of Empire
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
BOOKS BY BRIAN MCCLELLAN
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WAR CRY
Copyright © 2018 by Brian McClellan
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Richard Anderson
Cover design by Christine Foltzer
Edited by Justin Landon
A Tor.com Book
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ISBN 978-1-250-17015-6 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-250-17016-3 (trade paperback)
First Edition: August 2018
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Brian McClellan, War Cry
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