“How many Touched?” His tawny hair blows across the scar on his cheek as he looks to me instead of Scout for his answer.
“A dozen adults, the same in children from appearances alone.” I counted them, the ones limping or carried, or hobbled like Mag by a sway back, others blanket-wrapped with warped heads or missing limbs. “Those with visible flaws are usually more dangerous, wielding the greater Touch. But plan on just as many with hidden talent, if not more.”
For a moment, Cullan’s fingers press on his eyelids. “Archers will move into the trees and strike first.” He addresses Javlan, “Captain, I want the Touched targeted by your best shots, the rest aim for the men if you can. Try not to kill any children.”
“The Touched children?” Javlan asks gravely.
“Fuck!” Cullan snaps at the mountains. He can’t say the words.
“Kill the Touched,” I speak for him. “A four-year-old can incinerate you or blind you as well as an adult can. If you’re plotting to do this, then do it.”
The spark of flint in Cullan’s eye reflects both relief and disgust. He nods. “Then we go in with whatever we have. If someone surrenders, we don’t kill. The point is to capture these people alive if we can.”
“Most likely anyone who’s screaming, running, or attacking isn’t Touched,” I inform them. “Or at least their magic isn’t threatening. Look for those standing still, or hiding and observing. They’re concentrating, focusing their power.”
With a sigh of acknowledgement, Cullan shifts to a discussion of deployment with his captains. “Javlan, take a company of archers and foot soldiers. Fan out on the valley’s western slope. Captains Gideon and Khiry, you’ll approach from the valley’s ends, south and north respectively. The eastern slope is steep and treeless with sliding stone; it offers little protection if the Biters attempt to flee.”
Since Sergeant Dex and I had our little falling out, I report to Sergeant Snake-Eye, pronounced “Snacky,” a reformed Biter with a name matching his demeanor. A short wiry man with features crowded into the middle of his face, he detests his own people, and I know why. Biters aren’t overly sensitive to little men with colossal opinions of themselves and no Touch. Apparently, Cullan thought that the sergeant and I would see snake-eye to snake-eye. I don’t appreciate the comparison, but he’s not far from wrong.
Before midday, we traverse the last two miles and begin the slow descent into the valley. The pines stand dense enough to conceal us if we don’t trip over our own feet. I crawl forward, slinking on belly and forearms into a deadly range. Bugs, a sharp-nosed woodsman, and Zane with a mop of black hair and a wild glint in his blue eyes sit to my left, backs resting on an old log as if they’re on a picnic. Skylan squats off to my right, hidden in the brush, biting his fingernails. Once in position we have to wait while the other companies creep around the valley floor to the ends of the encampment. I have a decent spot, low down in a tangle of brush, my bow cocked and ready, a comfortable rock for my ass.
The Biter camp has lean-tos and pits for fires. Men cut wood and pull brush to construct a fence. They sharpen weapons, plan hunts, and clean a goat of its skin. Children collect sticks and dried-up dung for burning while their mothers hang food supplies beyond the reach of bears. Others wash pots in the stream and haul water, mend clothing with infants sleeping in slings on their backs. This close, I note more of the Touched, those posing no threat, smiling at nothing as Glory used to do, sharing the pack’s burden of small tasks. Fires flicker to life without tinder and a vision of Mercy appears like an accusation in my head, the man who warmed me when Rune trussed me to the pillars of Heaven.
My fingers and toes are freezing as I find the slaves among them, the ever-vigilant eyes, cheeks tear-stained with grime, bodies cringing beneath the hard faces of men who snatch what they desire without consequence, the defiant being herded and watched as I once was. I hunt the sounds of weeping, pleading, and threat, and wonder how many of these women are newly acquired, sold or traded at the North Tradepost over the summer, raped and impregnated by their new owners. Will I find women of Utopia among them, of Paradise, of Heaven? I choose my first target.
A horn blares, steady pressure on the trigger unleashes my bolt with a sudden hiss and an old man tumbles backwards off his feet. Everything changes in the instant; waiting flips into frenzied action, the silence broken by a pandemonium of shouting and screaming. I tip my bow and pull the rope to cock the string, set another bolt and aim. Biters run, some away from us, carting children in their arms; others scramble toward us in confusion, a few stand immobilized by fear in midst of their camp, wailing. At both ends of the valley, Fortress soldiers stampede toward the camp. Biter men howl as they scurry in low crouches to meet the barrage. I squeeze, my bolt skewering a woman in the eye as she swings to face me and raises a finger to point. Was she Touched, aiming at me? I cock my string, load, and shoot, my quarrel skidding over stone.
Fires erupt among our soldiers as they reach the camp, human torches screaming and flailing. The enemies meet and my bow is nearly useless, the fight tightening into a roiling mass of steel blades, pounding fists and spilled blood. Snake-Eye bellows for us to keep shooting, to aim for the Touched. I don’t see them, so I simply aim for Biters, any Biters, hoping to strike true. How are we supposed to take captives in this chaos?
Then they’re on us, striking from behind, higher on the slope, coming out of nowhere. Snake-Eye draws his flatbow and gets one off before a metal pipe bashes in the side of his face, spattering the stones with blood. I hear a war cry, high and shrill. Terror claws into my throat with an unexpected excitement, the same eerie thrall of invincibility that swept me when we killed the Biters for Amarion’s goats. I roll to my back and squeeze as a dozen Biters charge down the hill, feet hammering. A man’s mouth opens wide as my bolt slams into his chest, his scream sputtering out in a strange wail.
My bow thrust aside, I scramble to my feet, a knife in each hand. Skylan yells a string of curses, “Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” as he stumbles backwards from the swarming Biters. Zane and Bugs clamber toward me. I catch a glimpse of a Biter’s face as he sees Zane’s big ugly sword falling on him like a tree trunk, jaw hanging, eyes bulging, thin gray hair tangled across his forehead. Metal screeches as weapons meet, wood and flesh rupturing. My blood roars as men bellow in my ears. Twisting sideways, I avoid a spear thrust and crash with the man to the stone, rattling my teeth. The Biter’s knife goes up fast, but my hand snakes out faster, ramming my dagger into his neck to the hilt, sending him toppling.
Dragging at his stuck sword, Zane cracks a man in the jaw with his fist, snapping his head and driving him back long enough to shake his blade loose and whack another Biter with the flat. Other men fight around me, grunting as blades clash and scrape. Bugs, with blood smearing his face, grapples with another ax-wielding giant, skirting a blow meant to mash his brains. He dances out of reach, panting.
I have other worries. Caught inches from the face of a snarling Biter, his rank breath searing me, I smash my forehead into his nose. He staggers backward a step, off balance on the uneven ground and then lunges at me. Bug’s head splits open, blood and gore splattering us. I stick the Biter in the gut and rip while Skylan staggers downhill, clutching his bloody arm, a knife hilt buried in his back at the shoulder. The Biter with my knife under his ribs, punches me in the face, splitting my lip, light flashing in my eyes as I tangle my legs and go down hard.
Zane laughs with a wild madness, hair in his blue eyes, hacking a man down on the backswing. I scramble up, lose the grip on my blood-slick blade and get a taste of blood as Zane’s sword slashes into my attacker’s neck, spinning him, hands reaching to his throat as his guts slide out, and over he goes. I spit blood and vomit, my head full of noise; somewhere in the valley, I hear crying.
A Biter jumps the log, two spears gripped in his fists. He stabs a soldier, face all twisted with rage, screaming like a devil. More soldiers shout as they scramble up from below, Captain Javlan bellowing orders amid a chorus of pain. Zane blocks the Biter’s next thrust and strikes him in the side, chops into his arm, kicks his legs away and hacks at him on the ground, face speckled with blood. A squat man with long arms runs down on me, swinging a monster metal pipe that folds me in half and sends me tumbling over the stones. I stagger up, gasping, and stab a man between the shoulder blades as he faces the goateed captain, the hilt jolting in my hand. Javlan shoves the man’s own spear into this chest and kicks him down the slope.
Biters run now, those that haven’t kneeled in the demolished camp among the corpses. I sink to the log, my spit pink with blood, my teeth chattering and hands trembling. If I was freezing an hour ago, now I’m blazing hot, my skin sticky and scratchy from the blend of grit and gore, and I doubt I can walk. My face throbs, every part of me starting to bruise and whine. I look for Snake-Eye, for orders, and then remember he’s lying near the pines with half a face.
Major Cullan strides around the camp, shouting instructions, blood speckling his face and clothes, the muscles in his jaw strung taut, his expression furious. “Gideon?” he shouts. “Where the fuck is Gideon?”
“Here, Sir.” The young captain jogs up, a cut beneath his wool hair leaking down his face, his wrist bound with a bloody cloth and eye swollen shut.
“Have your men help gather the wounded. All of them. Where’s the surgeon?”
“Capper’s already setting up,” Gideon says, wiping the blood from his eye with a sleeve.
“Tend to your head and arm first,” Cullan says more gently. “Then the children, before anyone else.”
“Yes, Sir.” The major cranes his neck, seeking his officers.
“And if you see Bugs or Javlan, send them to me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Beside me, Captain Javlan sighs and tugs on his bloody goatee. I gaze up at him. “The major wants you.”
“I heard,” he murmurs, his prim formality sagging beneath a coat of death. “Sentry or burning bodies. What’s your guess?”
“Burning,” I throw out.
With a nod, he leaves me and strides into the camp, his left leg a trace stiff.
“Captain, you’re building pyres,” Cullan says.
‘Yes, Sir.” Javlan glances back at me and cants his head for me to get my ass up and start dragging bodies into piles. Then he, too, starts gathering what’s left of his men.
Hours later, my hands wrapped to keep my broken blisters from screaming, I bury burned bones in shallow graves that scavengers will scrape up within days. I don’t care, not about our little bone wall in this valley¸ not about much else either, except sleep. We lost nearly seventy men, the Biters closer to a hundred, including children. That’s a lot of digging.
Of the one-hundred-thirty Biters who survived almost a quarter are Touched, most of them children. We’ll leave them behind in the frigid wind and burned out encampment. I hope the men and women who escaped our assault come back for them after we leave, or come spring, we’ll be burying what’s left of their bones.
2
6
~Angel~
My sister stands by the window in moonlight, the only light in this ancient relic of a lost age. Carved of alabaster, she is a statue whittled by a master’s artful hand, naked skin pale, shadowed, wraithlike in its translucence. Her hair gathers moonbeams, cornsilk draped over shoulder-bones, free of the blood staining her face and hands. Gray eyes honed with steel study a landscape of gnarled trees, skeletal limbs clawing with broken fingers from a dead land. All around her the world dies. She is blind to the fragile greenness of new leaves.
Her clothes lie in a heap on the floor, the reek of battle, sweat, and blood thick in the folds, threads of terror woven into the very fabric. She will dream in blood, wear those clothes without respite, glory in the gore of shredded flesh.
All winter she has killed, tracked raiders and rapers deeper into the waste, wiped the forests around the Fortress clean of the People, young and old, wicked and virtuous, ordinary men and women and the Touched. She peoples the Forerunners with widows and widowers, vengeful slaves sprinting for the gallows. She delivers us orphans, broken children to populate our future.
If forced to choose, I believe I would prefer the honest callousness of the River Walkers to the righteous brutality of this place.
“I’ll get water for bathing,” I tell her.
“No need.” Rimma’s eyes remain fixed on the star-dusted city outside our window.
“What about Mikel?” I ask. “Surely, he won’t want dried blood flaking off into his bed.”
“Mikel entertains other company. He’s eager to populate the planet, and I’m not cooperating.”
“Oh, Rimma, I’m sorry.” My heart breaks for her though she appears devoid of feeling, a stone likeness of a woman I once knew.
“No matter,” she says. “He’s neither done with me, nor I with him. And I miss you.” She faces me and softly smiles.
“Well, I’m getting water if you plan to sleep in my bed,” I state, returning the rare warmth with my own smile. “I’ll ask them to warm it.”
When Rimma nods, I head down the dark stairwell, a tallow candle lighting my way, shadows wavering on the walls with each step. The lower level feels steamy hot and pleasant in winter, but now with spring’s arrival, the heat inches toward oppressive. Huge stoves and ovens constructed of metal slabs and mortared brick and stone, ring the outer wall, venting their smoke into the outside chill. Wood is amassed in a large room with gigantic doors that roll up on winches. This floor of the stronghold never sleeps; its fires rarely die.