I awaken to the sound I’ve come to fear most in this world: the successive thumping of drums. It isn’t long before Peter’s screechy voice is there to add another irritating element.
“Up, you fools. We’re being called to battle.”
There’s a chill in the air. It will be chased off by the midday sun in a few hours, but its presence signals that Brother Autumn is drawing to a close. What will happen to us then? Will the Kalykans give us overcoats to fight the chill? Surely they won’t let us die when the fighting inevitably stalls. It’s a fool’s hope, but one to which I can’t help but cling.
It’s still dark, with little twinges of orange barely permeating the horizon as the remaining men of Group Eleven gather outside our tent and unfurl the chain line against the aural backdrop of steady drums. Are the Kalykans attacking? The Cenecans offered only meager resistance in the week it took for us to connect our trenches with the others around Summerset. It makes no sense that the Kalykans would waste a week’s worth of work if they had simply planned to attack all along.
“Always daydreaming.” Peter curses as he grabs me by the arm the same way you would a small child who misbehaves. “Never doing what you’re told.” He walks me alongside the straightened chain line, past Caleb, and to the very end of the line. I begin to panic. The only reason I’ve been able to stay alive as long as I have is because Caleb and I have worked together. I protest, but Peter already has a retort prepared.
“I don’t want to hear it, Boots. You and Caleb have been getting too close for my liking. I think your battle buddy today will be Bernard here.”
He deposits me near a man with curly black hair and a straight mustache. I look at him skeptically, but it’s as though the man were frozen with fear. A blank look is plastered across his face. Whether terrified or just insane, he makes no acknowledgement as I pass.
“Lock in, Boots,” Peter orders as he walks away.
I click my left foot into the shackles and, to my surprise, find that Caleb and I aren’t that far away after all. Bernard and an empty slot are all that separate us. I whistle to him until his eyes meet mine.
“Work together?” I ask.
“Of course.” Caleb smiles. If Bernard hears us, he makes no sign of it. The man still hasn’t said a word. Is he catatonic?
The average conscript group consists of twenty-five men, which means that any time there’s a shortage, someone must pick up the slack of the unused shackles to ensure we keep pace and don’t trip over the dragging chains. Due to Peter’s incompetence, that means that roughly half of our chain is empty and we fifteen unfortunate souls must shoulder double the burden.
“Boots, if I see that slack dragging, I’ll execute you myself. Pick it up.” Peter points to the slack in front of me that separates me from Bernard.
“Why can’t he take it?” I jab a thumb toward Bernard. It’s then I notice the gammadon on the back of the man’s neck. So, he’s a prisoner of war like me. A crooked grin splices Peter’s face, and just like that, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I see an open palm that’s moments away from striking me, and I dart my head out of the way. Flashes of red flare by as Peter’s slap misses me. He spins and falls to the dirt.
My satisfaction is short lived, though; he comes raging back to his feet to try again. Do I let him hit me? He won’t stop until he does. Some men cannot live with the shadows that haunt them from within and so they find it easier to distract themselves by taking their pain out on others. My right hand grabs his right wrist on its own accord when I sense ill intent. How did I do that? I squeeze and watch as his hand turns purple from the wrist up. I feel strong, whole—for the first time in weeks. Why should I have to take orders from this weakling?
“Conscript groups, on me!” Lieutenant Hoods yells, galloping by on horseback. I let Peter go and come back to myself. The scarlet at the edges of my vision retreats, and the grayish browns of the trench and camp come back to me.
“Where’s Group Eleven?” I hear Hoods yelling in the background. Stories of the lieutenant’s rage are legendary. If we don’t move to join the other conscript groups, Peter won’t be the only target of his anger.
I decide to diffuse the situation the best I can by saluting Peter.
“Hoods orders us on, my capa,” I say with mock sincerity. “Shall we?”
Peter spits on me. As the gluey gob wets my cheek and slowly streaks down it, he reiterates his earlier statement: “Pick it up. Now.”
He lowers his voice at the last word. He’s like a child who won’t give up his favorite toy, and his stubbornness is holding all of Group Eleven up. At one point in my life, I would have sought peace and harmony; I would have gladly shied away from confrontation. But that time is long past. When you face death every day, even small comforts such as these matter. Besides, the longer I survive, the better my chances of seeing my family are, and carrying double the weight certainly impacts that.
“Group Eleven, get your asses over here.” Lieutenant Hoods stalks over to Peter, who’s flanked by two Kalykan soldiers outfitted in trench armor. Hoods has the look of a man ready to strangle, and only on the outer edges of my vision do I see another mischievous grin split Peter’s face.
“Lieutenant Hoods, this conscript is holding us …” a feminine yelp escapes from Peter’s throat as one of Hoods’s flanking soldiers whips him.
The lieutenant turns to the soldier on his left, the one with the whip, and commands with authority, “Go fetch Group Four for me. I want them paired with Group Eleven. It’s time for these miserable excuses for conscript groups to be cleansed.” His gaze lingers on Peter. Then he turns to the soldier to his right and gives separate orders:
“You, take the rest of the groups to the major for proper deployment. I’ll meet you there after I personally escort the malcontents to their deaths.” He looks to Peter as his two men scatter to follow their orders.
“Group Eleven, you’re coming with me.”
True to his word, the lieutenant leads us along with Group Four to the front lines, where the battle has already begun. Not that I’m some savvy veteran, but I’ve never seen an engagement so devoid of logic. There, across the field and against the western wall, the Cenecans have lined up for what seems to be an infantry charge. My best guess is that upon seeing the trench completed, they realized the noose was tied and are trying for one last, desperate escape.
The problem with this strategy is that after we had completed the initial trench, the Kalykans ordered us to build approaching trenches directly toward the city. They call to mind the image of a growing tree branch that continues to expand until its tips touch Summerset. The way the Cenecans deployed meant that they would consistently be in the line of Kalykan fire. It makes no sense for them to attack.
But what room is there for sense in war? With a groan, I pick up my pace to match that of the lieutenant, Peter, and the rest of the dead men marching.
At first, upon hearing Hoods say that we’d be put in the worst position once again, I tried to push images of my death far from my mind. As it turns out, the Cenecans are so outmatched that most cannot make it within twenty-five paces of our line.
The result is heartbreaking. Wave upon wave of brave Cenecan warriors breaks against the makeshift ramparts of the trench. Bullets and cannonballs whizz overhead from both directions, taking one in ten of the charging Cenecans. Kalykan bayonets stab upward from the men in the trenches. Conscript chains are lassoed around the limbs of the few lucky attackers that make it to the rim of the trench, and these poor bastards are dragged into the mud and beaten to death with fists, logs, and all manner of makeshift weapons.
After an hour, the Cenecans send the horses.
What seems at first to be a million heartbeats soon transform into the ground-shaking hoofbeats of a cavalry charge. The ground pulses upon their approach, and beasts and men emerge from the powder fog produced by the cannons. The riders wear rose-red coats and little in the way of armor but fire repeating rifles on their backs while holding sabers and screaming. They make for the heart of the siege camp near the co-opted farmhouse.
“Group Eleven,” Hoods shouts, red faced and rabid. “Jump the trench and move to intercept position. Double time, rats!”
The Cenecans ride for death, and we are ordered to intercept the charge. We are to be the bramble upon which they ensnare themselves, the sacrificial caltrop meant to impede them long enough for the enlisted men to shoot them dead. Hoods rides hard after us, whipping at me in the rear of the conscript line.
“Yah! Go on, git! Form ranks in front of command. Protect your masters with your lives,” Peter yells, so loud I fear my eardrum will burst.
I have never performed the maneuver before, and so, looking around, I do my best to imitate my peers. Kalykans and conscripts alike form into an uneven square with the conscripts in front kneeling and two rows of infantry soldiers rounding out the shape. After I get into position and kneel like the other conscripts, a harsh kick from behind shoots lightning up my spine. I straighten, painfully.
“Serve us well, and earn your freedom when this war is over. Conscript corps: bayonets up!” says one of the sergeants of the platoon we’ve been ordered to protect. His voice is tinny, muffled by the trench armor. Some Kalykan officer fancy enough to afford real metal armor stalks behind the conscript line and slaps people into formation. I comply and put my bayonet up into a stabbing position, as if this piece of wood will do anything against a half-ton animal and its rider …
“Don’t mind the riders,” the same tinny voice yells to the rest of the men in the square. “Target the horses. Trip them up, throw the riders.”
By now, the sound of hooves is near deafening. I feel the familiar weight of a repeating rifle on my shoulder. Another Kalykan soldier, this one with much scrappier tin armor plating sewn into his uniform and dangling from his cap, is using my shoulder as a tripod. He peers through the eye slits in the armor and barks out an order.
“Don’t move, conscript. If I miss, it will be your fault, and that won’t look good for you. Oh, and you might want to cover your ear.”
The ground rumbles beneath my knees. They’re getting close. My focus is suddenly drawn to the details. Why do the Cenecans have so many white steeds? Why are their riders so young looking? How can they navigate the muddy morass at a full gallop?
Their mostly white steeds become polluted with muddy spray as they sprint toward us. I resist the urge to drop my wooden bayonet and cower behind the earthworks. I plug my ear just in time.
“Fire!” The tinny voice behind us yells. The crack of the rifles erases all other sounds for a brief moment, and I imagine even Bernard flinches at their bark. A cascade of bullets flies toward the charging army. Few in the first line manage to escape, and both men and beast careen into the mud. Still, the charge continues, with anterior riders moving up to take the place of the fallen.
Their glory is short lived.
It’s a strange thing: one moment it seems like two-dozen horses charge headlong after us, but in the next moment, they are gone, the fire within them snuffed, leaving only plumes of muddy water where they fall.
The riderless horses react in various ways. Some leap over the fallen, barely breaking stride as though driven on by passion of their own. Others rear and bolt off the battlefield. The second wave of fire from the Kalykans ensures the riders won’t reach our square.
“Form lines. Maintain your formation!” the tinny voice yells among the carnage. The cavalry charge is stopped, the surviving members fleeing back to the west wall of Summerset, but a group of infantrymen is sent in their wake with the hope of breaking through. For the most part, the group is easily repelled, but a few Cenecans find their marks on the conscript line, slowly taking a toll on our already dwindling number.
This pattern repeats for what feels like hours, but could just as easily be a few minutes.
I learn to live for the lulls between the charges, the moment in time when the Cenecans retreat after being repelled. No cannon fire, no screaming men cracking off and charging with reckless abandon. No pulsing of the ground indicating the beasts of war are almost upon you.
All that I have are a few solitary breaths. They are deep, but only just enough for the next plunge.
After the fifth charge, the rain starts, and it has a humbling effect on the battlefield. The powder smoke and battle mist, which have shrouded the city on one side and the Kalykan batteries on the other, dissipate in the rain, and the entire field is soon muddy. The Kalykans do not waste any opportunity to press the advantage. The call goes up among the enlisted men to ready for an attack.
Of course, that means the conscripts will pave the way. Almost on cue, a tinman appears behind our line and whips poor Bernard and some other unfortunates.
“On your feet! March!” he yells.
Bernard flinches at the sting of the lash, but just barely. As if sleepwalking through a nightmare, he rises and follows the chain line out.
The tinny voice orders us to trek through the killing fields littered with hundreds of the dead. But soon the pull at our ankles stops us cold. At least five of our number are felled but remain attached to the chain. Their corpses leave trails in the wet earth where they’re dragged. Peter brings this up to the man in charge, who raises a fist into the air. The conscript and enlisted units marching behind him obey and come to a halt.
There’s a moment where I look at the Kalykan lines behind us and mistake them for demons. Every one of them is outfitted in improvised armor from whatever could be found in the nearby wood or trenches. I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
The one in charge throws a knife down with force so that it sticks into the ground. The steel-slit mask he wears is cold as he stares down at Peter.
“Cut them free, Capa.”
Peter wears his skepticism openly.
“But a knife won’t cut through the chains, sir,” trembles our capa.
“Not the chains, their limbs.”
Peter laughs uncomfortably, but the officer is serious. He turns to a few of the soldiers under his command and orders them to help Peter cut the dead conscripts from the line.
I can’t bring myself to watch as the fallen conscripts’ limbs are hacked at until the line is free of their dead weight. But it’s impossible to fully suppress the horror of it as I hear limbs bring broken and bones sawed off.
“We’re falling behind the others,” says the masked leader when the job hasn’t been completed quickly enough.
I look to my left where Bernard is and am shocked that he is still wearing the same flat expression he has been since the moment I laid eyes on him. Does this man feel anything? Can he even talk? I catch sight of Caleb, my friend. What I see sends a pang of worry through me.
Caleb grits his teeth, nursing an unseen injury. For a man his age to still be alive in these conditions is quite an accomplishment. He catches me staring at him.
“You all right?” I ask nervously. He holds up his right arm, and I see it’s bleeding badly.
“Got nicked in that last cavalry charge.”
“You know,” I say, “some old-timer gave me good advice once: keep your head down and your wits about you, and you just might make it.”
“Old-timer? Listen here, you—”
But there’s no time for banter. From behind us comes the muffled command of the Kalykan officer.
“On your feet, men. Double time to catch the others. Our platoon is bound for the gates of Summerset.”
About two hundred fathoms separate us from the Cenecan position. The front of their line is arrayed on a small man-made ridge in front of the western wall of Summerset. At the start of the day, it seemed like they had an endless supply of bodies to call upon to liberate themselves from the cage the Kalykans had constructed around them. All that’s left on the ridge is a small team manning six cannons and a handful of soldiers who look unenthused about being there to protect the guns. This battle is all but over.
The rain pelting down on trench armor produces an ominous ticking noise—like something a nest of angry insects would make—that precedes our arrival. How frightening this sight must be to the men on that ridge: thousands of conscripts and soldiers swarming their city. Despite their fear, they find the courage to stand and continue fighting. They stand ready to defend their families and loved ones. Something I failed to do when Kalyko came for me.
I am a weaker man, and the shame makes the march that much harder to bear.
Behind me, about half of the Kalykan force marches toward the ridge. The goal here seems simple: take the ridge and install cannons. With the ground secured, they can shell with impunity until the city is broken, and the other half of the army can deal the killing blow.
In theory, it’s a sound strategy, but how often do plans go according to their design in war?
At about a field’s length from the ridge, the handful of stalwart men protecting the cannon team that I had admired moments ago are in the process of fleeing their posts. Only the cannoneers remain.
“The sisterfucks flee before us. Pick up the pace, men,” the tinny voice orders. But something’s not right. Why would the cannon team remain?
As though in answer, the cannons arrayed on the ridge open fire on our ranks. A cannonball passes above my head, barely missing me, and flies through the chest of a Kalykan soldier behind us, instantly obliterating his heart. More thunder follows, and men fall from the ranks like the raindrops from the sky.
“Dig in, men. We’re almost th—“
Before the man with the tinny voice has the time to get the last of his words out, the his life is ended by one of the six Cenecan batteries that engage us all at once. As they continue to fire, hundreds of crimson-clad soldiers begin populating the ridge and opening fire on our approach. The realization numbs me: it was a trap. The soldiers weren’t fleeing; they were feinting to convince the Kalykans to press the attack.
More Cenecans appear on the field now, rushing as if shot from the cannons themselves, as they run through the smoke created by the artillery barrage. I instinctively fall to the ground and cover my head. It proves to be a sound decision as I hear the whoosh and crunch of an eight-pound iron ball ricocheting through flesh and bone. Pressed into the mud, I feel a familiar pulsating vibration: cavalry. I push myself up.
“Caleb, we need to get out of here. They’re coming,” I shout, but the words are lost in a cacophony of firepower and screams. Whatever order the Kalykans had before they started this attack is gone, and chaos rules in its stead.
“Retreat! Pull back to camp!” another tinny voice calls out. The platoon that Group Eleven was assigned to is flying back to the safety provided by the trenches, leaving us conscripts to our fate. I notice Peter on the edge of my vision. He runs to catch up to the retreat, flinching and stumbling every time another cannon is fired. He’s leaving us to die. I shout into the air after him and, out of anger, take a step to follow but find my progress halted.
The chain that binds me to the line is taut.
I pully my way along the chain, past the empty slot, and eventually find myself staring into the dead eyes of Bernard. Two distinct red stains leak from his chest, but I can’t help but be drawn to his face. In life, I knew him as a blank and pallid man, but in death his face is set with a slight grin that’s only just covered by the overhanging hairs of his thick mustache. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s peering into my soul in the most unusual way. It’s like the man mocks me from death, saying, “Hah! Looks like you’re the only one still suffering!”
Suddenly, panic sets in. I’m trapped. I’m not going to survive this. Emily, Sarah, I’m sorry!
“Nolan, look …” I glance up to see Caleb walking toward me, holding a broken chain snapped apart by what is likely the aftermath of a cannonball. We’ve been freed from the rest of the chain line. That means its only Caleb, the body of Bernard, and I who are tethered together. A faint glimmer of hope alights in my mind. The vibrations in the ground are stronger, closer.
“We can carry Bernard, flee back to the trench. It’s our only chance.” I point toward the corpse on the ground. Caleb exhales forcefully. He looks as exhausted as I feel. Will we be able to run with all the additional weight? I don’t know …
“I’ll try,” Caleb manages as we kneel to pick up the corpse.
“Wait,” I say, forgetting that one of the empty chain slots is still tethered to us. I let Caleb shoulder the weight of the corpse as I hoist the excess chain over my shoulder and across my body. Only when I have it secured do we each wrap ourselves under Bernard’s arms and hoist him up.
Trying to run with a corpse is not an easy thing. Trying to run with a corpse through the mud while being shot at by hundreds of enemies is nearly impossible. With my shoulder in the dead man’s left armpit and Caleb’s under his right, no matter how hard we push, Bernard’s legs drag behind us in the mud. We must look like some pathetic old drunkards stumbling home from a pub in the wee hours of the morning. I can feel a tingle in the back of my neck: the Cenecan cavalry is closing in.
“This isn’t working. Drop him. We can pull him like a sled.” We drop Bernard face-first into the mud, his body sounding like the heavy squish of an overripe apple falling from a tree. There isn’t time to argue the point, and so Caleb does the same.
“Sorry, Bernard,” I mutter.
The two of us run at a full sprint, dragging what feels like the weight of a tree behind us. We zigzag through fallen bodies, trees, and wagons strewn about the killing fields of the battle, attempting not to get the corpse snagged on the obstacles.
“Come on, Caleb. Dig deep. We need to push harder. They’re gaining on us,” I say, hoping to inspire my friend. He says nothing in return, just grunts like an old man who is being pushed beyond his limit. He’s lagging and breathing hard. I feel the extra weight added to my load, but to my surprise, it doesn’t slow me down.
It isn’t until we are maybe fifty fathoms from the trenches that I see a familiar face. Levi, the capa of Group Thirteen, has his men arrayed in the usual square formation, preparing for a cavalry charge. The Kalykan infantry sits snug behind them with the repeating rifles in firing position.
But Caleb and I have run out of time. I know it the moment my ears pick up the hoofbeats striking the ground. We have maybe fifteen or twenty seconds before we are trampled.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my fears: several Cenecan mounted units barrel toward our position, pikes and swords cast forward. We will be trampled, and it will be three dead men chained together in the mud.
Something in me tells me to stop. It’s not that I necessarily get a clear idea, but more of a feeling. Stop, it says.
I instantly stop in place, which causes Caleb to lose what little momentum he had.
“What are you doing?” Caleb says through tired breaths, panicking.
“Run that way as hard as you can.” I point behind him. “Then grab and brace the chain at the leg. Go, now.”
Though his face radiates confusion, he doesn’t question me. Caleb and I sprint as hard as we can in opposite directions. I can feel the chains uncoiling behind me until they eventually pull taut, and I let out loose a grunt as my hip feels like it’s been stretched out over a fire. I fall to the ground on my ass and brace the chain with my hands. I see that Caleb has done the same. Bernard lies between us, looking like he’s taking a nap, comfortable as can be.
The rhythmic rumble of the far-off charge has given way to an erratic and thunderous mix of stomping hooves and the war cries of men. But there is another sound. Something unnatural to the battle. I can’t place what it is exactly. A sinister whisper on the winds?
But there is no time to think on it, because death has arrived.
As the foremost riders come upon us, I clench what seems to be every muscle in my body and pull my chained leg up as high as I can manage. The lead horse slams into it, and the chain yanks my leg so hard I worry it will pop entirely off. The horse screams as it falls, but the rider screams louder. Weightless and completely out of control, he careens into a rock with a horrendous snap, then falls silent.
With several heavy thuds, the first horse and two others topple into the mud.
Any elation I feel is extremely short lived; I’m pulled by the chain and dragged a few fathoms myself. But I soon come to a stop and feel the chain slacken again.
The horses thrash around, trying to right themselves after tumbling through the mud. One of the riders pushes himself up, but the other two lie motionless. More of their comrades pour toward us but are forced to stop short or suddenly veer off at the last second. These men are shot at by the Kalykan army. Some riders fall and others peel off to regroup and ready another charge.
How am I still alive? I attempt to wiggle the toes on my left foot and am surprised to find they still work. The tightness of the chain is gone. Impossibly, my leg is still attached and seems … fine. Sore, but I’m amazed that it isn’t dislocated at the least or shattered at worst.
As I stand, I take in the havoc our escape created. A half-dozen horses lie in the mud, some screaming and flailing with broken legs and eyes made wild by the pain. Others scramble to their feet, but all are free of riders. The Cenecan cavalry has been thrown about the field. Some lie dead, instantly killed upon their impact with the ground. The ones who were lucky enough to survive the fall limp back toward Summerset.
I watch as a conscript with a grimy white shirt and a gammadon seared on his forehead uses the end of his wooden rifle to bash in the skull of a surviving Cenecan. I know this conscript. Walter, the abrasive asshole from Group Thirteen. The wild grin he wears while killing the soldier chills me. Nearby, others from his group have also broken rank, and they descend upon the downed Cenecans with chains, fists, and replicas.
“Levi,” the familiar voice of Lieutenant Hoods cascades over the din of battle. “Get your group back in formation! We will open fire.”
I need to find Caleb, I realize. As the white-shirted conscripts of Group Thirteen advance onto the battlefield against Kalykan orders, I find that moving around is easier, almost like a weight has been lifted from me.
I spot Caleb about twenty fathoms from one of the approaching trenches. He crawls on the ground toward the crack in the earth, but it’s what he drags behind him that brings me clarity. Somehow the line between us snapped, and I was torn free from it while he was left with half of Bernard. Well, a quarter or so of Bernard. His leg, foot to thigh, is still connected, but the rest gone.
“They’re coming for another pass,” an unfamiliar voice booms. “Group Thirteen, this is what I trained you for. No fear.” It’s Levi, who paces behind twenty-five men, stoking courage into their hearts. “Group Thirteen, back in formation! That is an order!” Hoods’s face is as red as a glass of fine wine.
Levi turns to meet Hoods’s eye.
“We’ll trip ’em, you shoot ’em, Lieutenant,” he calls back.
Once more, the pulsing of the ground quickens. I spy my reflection in a puddle at my feet. The ripples of vibration make me unrecognizable.
When I reach Caleb, I can see he’s badly injured, so I move to help him up. But it’s no use. His left ankle is locked in an unnatural position, making it more comfortable to crawl. I get underneath his shoulder and easily hoist him up. Together we shuffle, dragging chain and meat and bone behind us.
“How’s Bernard?” Caleb asks.
I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Humor? In this dark hour?”
“How are you able to walk, Nolan, let alone carry me?”
In truth, I don’t know. By all accounts, I should be as broken as my friend here, but the fact is that my body feels all right. Yes, there is pain, but even the things that hurt intensely a moment ago are now more of a dull ache.
“Come on, Caleb, we’re almost there,” I say as we climb over the small makeshift stone fence in front of the trench. I am about to lower him in when I find a bayonet in my face.
“What are you conscripts doing?” A Kalykan infantryman half my age assigned to the trench says to us harshly as he raises his gun toward us. “Back out there.”
I am about to protest when I look out and see Group Thirteen standing in a staggered line shoulder to shoulder and facing an oncoming charge of what looks to be fifty galloping destriers. To the Cenecans, they must look like an easy target, like a group of scattered men who are too stupid to tell right from left. But I know better.
Levi walks among his men, pointing at them or touching their shoulders, one by one.
He taps the giant, Moses, then says, “Right.”
He points to thief who stole my shoes. “Left.”
He winks at the skinny man in glasses. “Right.”
“Left,” he says to the man at the end of the line. “On my mark, Walter.”
Levi stands behind the group and raises his hands like a conductor about to compose his masterpiece. “Group Thirteen, what do we fear?”
Every man screams in unison, “Nothing!”
“Prove it!”
At once, the men of Group Thirteen run in pairs toward the approaching warhorses. Each holds the excess of his steel chains in his hands like a rope. When the Cenecans get close enough, at the last second, each man follows the capa’s orders and sprints the direction they were told. It’s like watching a train made of men unfurl itself. As the chain is pulled taut, the Cenecans realize their mistake just a moment too late.
Their horses can’t turn sharply in the mud. Their massive beasts carry them toward the trap.
Levi copies the maneuver Caleb and I performed, and improves upon it.
I feel the thud of horseflesh hit the ground before I hear it. As though the cannons firing throughout the day weren’t enough, it’s the sounds of dying horses and men alike that fill the skies over Summerset.
Remarkably, most of Group Thirteen remains unharmed. By my sight, I count only a handful of conscripts that are downed compared to nearly all the charging cavalry and about half the horses. A Cenecan crawls away, bone protruding from his shin. Another just lies there and wails, his entire lower half trapped under a dead horse.
It’s Levi who first rises from the chaos. He’s quicker than anyone I’ve ever seen and buries the wooden mock rifle into the crawling man’s skull. In another fluid motion, he leaps nearly five fathoms in order to put the wailing man out of his misery.
What’s odd is that the Kalykan infantry assigned to Group Thirteen simply watches, stunned by the spectacle. The rest of the group comes into focus one by one, each wearing the white conscript colors, like some castaway sprites emerging from the chaos of the battlefield.
“Look, they’re retreating back into the city!” a Kalykan soldier to my left shouts with excitement. “We’ve won!”
More Kalykans join the excitement and start cheering. Jubilation and relief ripple through the enlisted men, but I can’t help but notice that it is only the members of Group Thirteen who have stained their hands with Cenecan blood. They fall upon the Cenecan survivors like starving dogs being fed for the first time in weeks. The massive Moses grabs the head of one of them and smashes it into the mud, over and over again, until the body falls limp. Moses drops him and, with that done, moves on to his next victim. But the chain attached to his left ankle prevents him. The boot thief kicks another Cenecan in the face, then follows up by bringing his replica down on the man’s temple. The skinny man uses his chain to choke a Cenecan officer whose eyes bulge and veins pop.
Looking down at myself, I realize I’m covered in the blood of my countrymen, and the thought alone makes me want to die right now on this field.
No. I did what I had to do to survive, to get back to my family. I’m blameless.
But as the rain pours down and doesn’t wash the stain from my ragged clothes, I doubt that is true.