In the Shadow of Lightning

10

Idrian sat in one corner of his temporary tenement room with the palm of one hand pressed against his godglass eye. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow window, slashing rays through the dusty air, and he could hear the organized chaos of his battalion preparing themselves for the day just outside. Sleep had not come easy for him, not after watching Kastora die and then making sure that the phoenix channel was delivered to the Hyacinth. He felt beaten down, imagining mud on his knees and welts across the back of his neck, though it had been decades since his father had dared to raise a hand to him.

Somewhere in the tenement, a child laughed.

Idrian forced himself up, leaving his bedroll and crossing to the other side of the room, where Braileer had set out his armor. He ran his fingers across a few small mendings, feeling the deep notches in the steel frame of the shield and the heavy scratches across the hammerglass of his left pauldron. It was apparent that repairs had been done, though it would be a stretch to say they’d been done well. Idrian grimaced. Was an inexperienced armorer better than no armorer at all? Braileer hadn’t made the damage worse, at least.

Idrian looked in his pack for a pencil and paper, half minded to write a message back to the Ministry. When he could find neither, he began to compose it in his head: Braileer needed a few more years of training before he saw active duty; his presence was a disservice to them both; Idrian needed an experienced armorer. Returning to his armor, Idrian did a more thorough examination. One of the broken straps was mended, and quite well. The polish on the metal was properly done. There were, he admitted to himself, a few competent points.

A child laughed again somewhere in the tenement and Idrian shook his head. Glassdamned civilians needed to get out of here. He could be sympathetic that many of them had no place to go, but fleeing into the countryside or deeper into either Grent or Ossa was a better alternative than staying in an active war zone. He stepped into the hallway, following the sound of the laughter to the end of the building, where he found a tenement door opened a crack. The child’s giggle issued from within.

“Listen,” he said loudly, knocking on the door and pushing it open, “you need to move…” He trailed off, staring at the room for several moments. It was abandoned, just as threadbare and empty as his own, with a bedroll and pack belonging to one of the Ironhorns’ sergeants sitting in the corner but nothing else. Certainly no children. Idrian swallowed hard and pressed on his godglass eye. “Shit,” he whispered.

He gripped the eye carefully and pulled it out of the socket, lifting it to peer into the purple, cloudy depths with his one good eye. The color was a little duller than the last time he’d checked, but not so much as to reduce the effectiveness of the sorcery it emanated.

“Sir,” called a voice.

Idrian pushed the eye back into its socket and whirled around to see Braileer standing just outside the door.

“Everything all right, sir?”

Idrian glanced into the empty room and closed the door, forcing himself to ignore the child’s laughter that came from within instantaneously. “It is.”

“Your breakfast is ready, sir.”

Idrian joined Braileer back in his own room, sitting down on his bedroll as the young man set a tin plate in front of him. Idrian was deep in his own thoughts, trying not to think about that child’s laughter while coming up with a way to let Braileer down easy. Would the young man be ashamed of being immediately removed from his position? Or secretly relieved not to have to go into combat? Or both?

He tapped his knife against the tin plate a few times thoughtfully before using it to shovel food into his mouth. He was immediately jolted back to the present, his palate hit by several powerful flavors. He looked down. “This isn’t Laurent’s gruel,” he said.

Braileer was watching him keenly. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit substandard, sir. The quartermaster–”

“Laurent.”

“Laurent wouldn’t believe that I was your new armorer, so I had to swipe a few things from the castoffs at his prep station. It’s just potatoes fried in lard, with onion leaves, some old garlic, and a bit of cheese.”

Idrian took another bite and chewed slowly, tilting his head to one side to listen for more distant laughter. Nothing. His phantoms were silent for the moment. Pleasure of any kind tended to quiet them. “This is better than anything Laurent has ever made us. And you whipped it up from his extras?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You always light-fingered?”

Braileer seemed to sense the trap in that question and ducked his head. “I’m not a thief, sir. I’m the youngest in a big, poor family. If I wanted to eat I needed to swipe from my brothers’ plates without getting caught.”

“Then how do you know how to cook?”

“I apprenticed with an armorer’s chef for three years. One day the armorer’s regular assistant got ill, so I filled in. The poor girl died, and I learn quick, so I became an armorer’s apprentice.”

Idrian finished his meal, enjoying every bite, taking solace in the warmth and richness of the food. When he finished he leaned back against the wall and set aside his plate, watching Braileer right back. “The work you did last night is … well, it’s not bad, but it’s not good either.”

“I understand, sir. I won’t lie – my master argued with the recruiter for over an hour when they came around and conscripted me. Said I wasn’t ready, and he was right. I can’t do a perfect job, but I guarantee I’ll be better than nothing.”

Idrian already liked this kid. Quick, self-aware, attentive. “A Foreign Legion armorer pays a lot better than an armorer’s apprentice,” he observed.

“That it does, sir.”

Idrian licked clean his knife, wiped it on his uniform pants, and returned it to his belt. “How much?”

“A thousand a month, sir.” Braileer hesitated for a moment. “Are you going to dismiss me from your service, sir?”

“Hm.” Idrian looked at his plate and seriously considered licking that clean as well. “Not yet. We’ll see how you fit in,” he said. “Where is Tadeas?”

“Major Grappo is just outside, sir.”

Idrian left Braileer to roll up his bedroll and headed outside, where various Ironhorn squads all headed off in different directions. It was clear that orders had already been handed out, but Idrian himself hadn’t been included. His commanding officer and longtime friend stood in the center of the makeshift camp, hands on his hips, his eyes raised to the sky as if deep in thought.

Tadeas Grappo looked like an older version of his more famous nephew. He was in his late forties, with black hair, a scarred and weathered face, and thoughtful brown eyes. Despite having renounced his Assembly seat long ago to Demir, he still held himself like a guild-family member. His shoulders were squared, head up, a hint of regality in his presence despite his sweat-stained, dusty uniform.

“Finally joining us, our illustrious breacher?” he called as his eyes fell on Idrian.

“You didn’t send anyone to wake me up,” Idrian replied. “They aren’t ordering us to the front today?”

Tadeas shook his head. “They’ve split us up to babysit a bunch of artillery as they move them up. It’s drudge work, but better than what we went through yesterday.”

“Agreed.” Idrian came to stand next to Tadeas, pressing gently on his godglass eye as he made sure they were alone. “It’s happening again,” he said softly.

“Already?” Tadeas’s gaze snapped to him, his expression immediately growing worried. “I thought you had a couple years left until the eye started to degrade.”

“I thought I did too, but … Demir was here last night. At his request I accompanied him to the Grent Royal Glassworks to extract Master Kastora. We found Kastora mortally wounded, and he died within minutes of our arrival.” Idrian spoke as if giving a report to a fastidious general, trying to keep all emotion out of his words lest that dam burst.

Tadeas didn’t even twitch an eye at the mention of his nephew. Either he already knew he’d been here, or he just wasn’t surprised by it. He put a hand on Idrian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Your agreement with the Ministry – they know the eye holds your madness at bay. They’ll have to find you a siliceer to make a new one, correct?”

“Per our agreement, but I despair that no one out there can replicate Kastora’s work. He was the best.”

“We’ll find you someone.”

The words were hollow in Idrian’s ears, but still offered a margin of comfort coming from a friend. “I have a policy of never grieving for someone until after the war, but it was hard last night. Kastora saved my sanity. He was a good man, and our own stupid, glassdamned soldiers bayoneted him to death. He should not be dead right now. Captured, maybe, but not dead.”

“I know he meant a lot to you,” Tadeas said softly. “Both as a friend and, I suppose, a doctor of sorts. What form has the madness taken?” Tadeas leaned forward to examine Idrian’s godglass eye like a surgeon.

“Child’s laughter.”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“It’s new.”

“I should report this to the Ministry,” Tadeas said unhappily. “For your safety.”

Idrian snatched Tadeas by the arm. “Don’t.” The last thing he needed was to be dragged off by Ministry doctors, taken away from his friends and observed like an asylum lunatic for all hours of the day. “I’ll be fine.”

“The madness will not impair your ability to fight?” The question was asked carefully and Idrian snorted in response. Tadeas already knew the answer.

“No, of course not,” Idrian replied.

“You’d tell me if it did?”

“Yes.”

Tadeas gave him a doubtful look. “Perhaps your mind was just reacting to Kastora’s death, and it’ll settle back down. Your eye is still full of color. You should have a couple years to find another master siliceer before it runs out of resonance.”

Idrian swallowed, holding back a thousand worries and insecurities. He found no shame in voicing them, but it was unnecessary. Tadeas knew them all. Instead, he said, “I can only hope.” He did have to bite back the urge to tell Tadeas about the phoenix channel. He trusted Tadeas with any secret, of course, but he took his promise to Demir seriously. It would not leave his lips again, nor would he let it cloud his thoughts. If godglass disappeared, Idrian’s fate would be sealed. No sense in dwelling on it more than that.

Tadeas shook his head, touching Idrian gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. When this war is over, I’ll help you deal with the Ministry and finding a new master siliceer.”

“That’s kind of you to offer,” Idrian replied. It definitely helped to have a friend who cared at his side. Breachers were important, but a guild-family member could get results easier than Idrian. “Sometimes I wonder if I’d have gone mad if I’d never lost this eye.”

“And I wonder if I’ll be able to resist killing your father if I ever meet him,” Tadeas snorted. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Patricide doesn’t look good in front of a Ministry tribunal.”

“Only if they can find the body.” Tadeas checked his pocket watch. “Shit, I have to get to a staff meeting with General Stavri. Nothing for you to do today, so get some rest. Mika will be through here any time with one of those artillery regiments. Stay out of sight or one of those puffed-up guild-family pricks will try to bully you into guard duty.”

Idrian bid his friend farewell with a raised hand, watching Tadeas jog down the street. He touched his godglass eye briefly. Most people assumed he’d lost his eye in battle. He let them think that. Only Tadeas knew about the paternal cruelty – of the screaming and the beatings. He tried to cast it all out of his mind. He needed the rest after yesterday’s events, but he wished there were something for him to do, if only to keep his thoughts off of his own encroaching madness. He paced nervously, ignoring the looks from the Ironhorns’ support staff as they cleaned the camp and washed and mended uniforms.

Braileer came out on a nearby stoop, laying out Idrian’s armor, sword, and shield. Idrian paused his pacing long enough to watch. Perhaps the young armorer would do a better job at his repairs in the light of day. Even if he was just coming out to give them another polish, it was good that he was staying busy.

Idrian joined him, sinking down onto the stoop and staring up into the sky. “Do you think a lot about death, Braileer?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“You will, if you stay with the Foreign Legion long.” Idrian bit his own tongue immediately after the words slipped out. It wasn’t like him to maintain such a dark mood around someone he barely knew, and a fresh recruit at that. Braileer didn’t deserve it. “You’ll see the best of life as well,” he added.

“Yes, sir,” Braileer said, ducking his head to his work. Idrian wondered if he’d scared him.

A movement caught Idrian’s eye, and he turned to see a small girl watching him from the window of a tenement down the street. Most Grent civilians had fled ahead of the fighting, trying to stay well clear, but thousands were left hunkering in their homes with nowhere to go. Idrian waved. The girl waved back. A young woman suddenly appeared behind the girl and pulled her inside, closing the shutters with a quick, angry glare at Idrian.

He didn’t blame her. Nobody wanted this: not the civilians, not the soldiers. If not for the orders coming down from on high, he might be on holiday on this very street right now, enjoying the solstice and Grent’s darker, higher-quality winter ale.

The sound of a small explosion reached him, and Idrian’s head came up. Another followed, far too close for comfort. “Braileer,” he hissed. “Those are Mika’s grenades.” He was on his feet in half a moment, pinpointing the sound. “Arm yourself and come with me,” he ordered, snatching his helmet from Braileer’s hands and slamming it onto his head. He grabbed his sword and shield and set off at a run, not bothering to make sure the armorer had followed.

As he drew closer to the source of the explosions he could hear screaming. “Grent breacher!” someone shouted. “We have an incoming breacher!”

Idrian emerged from an alleyway to see a full-fledged battle taking place in front of him. A dozen artillery pieces were stretched out down the street, their crews huddled around them protectively, trying to keep the horses from panicking, while a mix of soldiers and engineers with the Ironhorn crest on their uniforms formed a perimeter.

That perimeter had already collapsed at the head of the column. A Grent breacher wearing full-plate armor chopped a brutal path up the line of artillery. Two horses were already dead, their artillery pieces cleaved into useless pieces, the bodies of crew and Ironhorns alike scattered around them. As Idrian watched, an artillery officer lost his head. In moments that breacher had killed the next horse, sliced off the wheel of a six-pound gun, and cleaved through half the crew. The rest fled, while the Ironhorns peppered the breacher’s armor with musket shot.

“You can’t go out there without your armor,” Braileer gasped as he caught up. He carried his smallsword and hammerglass buckler, and looked absolutely terrified.

“Try and stop me,” Idrian snapped. A wave of Grent soldiers – probably a small company’s worth – followed in the wake of their breacher, bayoneting the wounded and returning fire to drive the Ironhorns back. Idrian searched his comrades until he found Mika standing with her engineers, right in the path of the enemy breacher. She held a sling, loading it with a small grenade before whipping it over her head to send the explosive soaring into the enemy. The explosion drew their attention, and Idrian used that to his advantage.

He broke cover at a full sprint, praying that the sorcery in his helmet would be enough to get him through this. He hit the Grent soldiers from the side, sword-first, sweeping through them just as easily as their own breacher was slicing up the Ironhorns. Their organized shouts became screams and within moments he was covered in gore.

A grenade soared over Idrian’s shoulder, clattering across the cobbles and exploding right at the feet of the Grent breacher. She was too busy turning herself to face Idrian to notice the grenade, and the resulting explosion knocked her off her feet.

Idrian blocked a bayonet thrust with his shield, felt another slice across his calf, and cut through an entire squad of Grent infantry with the razorglass blade of his sword. A bullet whizzed past his ear and, conscious of the fact that he wasn’t actually wearing his armor, he whirled toward the enemy breacher as she regained her feet.

She closed on him in moments, and he caught her opening thrust on his shield, batted it aside, and slammed the dull edge of his sword against her hammerglass armor so as not to break his razorglass. The blow staggered her but she recovered quickly. She tossed aside her own shield, caught Idrian’s riposte with the flat of her sword, and then came at him swinging with all her might.

The blunt edges of their swords slammed off each other, enormous slabs of metal and godglass crashing together with the speed of a fencer’s smallsword and the force of a miner’s pickax. Idrian felt each reverberating blow all the way to his toes, and it became quickly clear that, while he might be the more skilled of the two, the forgeglass in her armor made her just too strong and too fast. He fell back, trying to figure out a way to disengage without being cut in half, praying that the damned fools behind him had retreated to safety.

They hadn’t, of course. Even within Idrian’s singular focus he could sense the continued battle raging around him. His sword arm was growing heavy, his legs sluggish, trying to wield sword and shield without the extra forgeglass. He caught a blow at the base of his sword that numbed his fingers and rattled his knees. He grunted, shoving the breacher back, staring into her victorious smile.

A ball suddenly flew through the air, bonking the Grent breacher in the side of the helmet. She barely seemed to notice, a brief frown crossing her face. Idrian might have laughed if he didn’t recognize that ball as one of Mika’s grenades.

There was his exit strategy.

He threw himself backward, putting his shield between himself and the grenade just as the explosion threw him and his opponent in opposite directions. He felt his ears pop. A great pressure passed through his chest. He allowed himself to continue falling backward, knocked from his feet, rolling across the cobbles and then coming back up with his sword at the ready. The Grent breacher had done the same, her armor protecting her from the blast, and she turned to sprint away. Idrian blinked sweat out of his eyes, hearing the Grent bugle call that signaled a retreat. The rest of the Grent infantry fell into an organized flight, waiting until their breacher was safely among them before turning tail completely.

A loud whistle cut through the air, followed by two short bursts. Idrian felt a wave of relief wash over him. That would be Tadeas, and with him Valient’s reinforcements. Musket shots ceased, leaving an eerie silence over the smoke-filled street filled only by the tramp of boots and the cries of the wounded. Idrian was soon surrounded by Ironhorn soldiers.

“You all right, sir?” one asked.

“Where is my armorer?” Idrian asked, casting about. To his surprise he found Braileer standing just behind him. The young man’s sword was still clean but his shield was scratched, and a rivulet of blood ran down his brow from a close cut. His eyes were wide but he seemed otherwise unhurt. “Were you with me that entire time?” Idrian asked.

Braileer’s whole body trembled, but he managed a nod.

“Good lad.” Idrian slapped him on the shoulder and knew in that moment that he would not dismiss him. He let himself sag, feeling suddenly sapped of all energy, his arms almost too weak to hold his sword and shield. He set them down where he stood and removed his helmet to wipe away the sweat. He turned around just in time to see Tadeas running toward him.

“If you ever,” Tadeas shouted, “ever rush into battle without your glassdamned armor again, I will have you pissing court-martialed!”

Idrian gazed back at his friend flatly. Tadeas’s face was red, and his eyes were full of worry, searching Idrian for wounds. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“Don’t ‘boss’ me, damn it!”

“Tad!” Mika said, right on Tadeas’s heels. “If he hadn’t intervened we would have lost a whole battalion’s worth of artillery, their crews, and the engineers that were helping them!”

“Nothing compared to losing a breacher,” Tadeas spat.

Idrian held up both hands, palms out. There was no arguing with Tadeas when he was in a rage like that. He was right, of course. That was damned stupid of Idrian. “I’d do it again,” he told Tadeas, hoping that his calm voice would help bring down Tadeas’s blood. “You think I’m gonna take the time to put on my armor when people are dying? You’ve met me before, right?”

“You…” Tadeas shook his finger at Idrian. “Damn it!”

“How about you find out who let a Grent strike force slip through our sentries,” Mika said, grabbing hold of Tadeas’s arm. Tadeas shook her off, his face contorting through a dozen different expressions before settling on dismay. At a glance, Idrian estimated they’d lost several engineers and twenty or thirty soldiers from the Ironhorns, not to mention a handful of artillery crews and their commanding officer. It was a testament to just how much damage a good breacher strike force could do in minutes.

“Valient!” Tadeas called. “Find out who glassdamned let that strike force through our sentries and bring them to me so I can cut them into little pieces!”

“You got it!” was shouted back from the other end of the artillery column.

“You.” Tadeas whirled back on Idrian. “See a medic for stitches and cureglass.”

“I’m fine.” Idrian’s blood had finally cooled and he could feel the sharp pain of the cut across his calf. He bent to examine it, happy to find that it was superficial. “Did we get new orders?” he asked.

“We did, and they’re damned strange. Did you even notice she cut off your earlobe?”

Idrian touched his left ear. It stung badly, and his fingers came back covered in blood. “That was my favorite ear,” he said to Mika as Tadeas stormed off.

Mika raised both eyebrows and said in a low voice, “I appreciate it. You just saved a shitload of my people.”

“That’s my job,” Idrian said, waving off the thanks. “That grenade at the end there saved my life.”

“You looked like your arms were about to fall off, and your armorer was about to get skewered by a Grent bayonet.”

“Thanks. Another thirty seconds and she would have had me. That sword is blasted heavy with only the forgeglass in its grip and my helmet.” He nodded Mika off, letting her go check on her wounded engineers, and found a piece of cureglass to slow the bleeding until one of their medics came to check on him. By the end of the hour he had stitches up a long gash on his right arm, as well as around what was left of his earlobe. It hurt like piss, but he forwent his milkglass. The pain reminded him not to be so stupid next time.

He probably would, but a reminder couldn’t hurt.

At some point, he could hear Tadeas screaming at someone around the corner. Probably the poor bastard in charge of their sentries – some middling officer from the regular infantry. Fighting soon broke out close by as Ossan infantry struck back at the Grent lines. Idrian waited for word for him and the Ironhorns to join that fighting, but it never came.

The dead were all but cleaned up, the wounded taken care of, when Idrian saw Tadeas heading back toward him from across the street. Idrian went to intercept his friend. “What happened?”

Tadeas sighed and sat down on one of the destroyed artillery pieces, staring at the flies buzzing around the dead horse in front of it. “A good strike force,” he replied. “Damned good. Took out our sentries and killed seven squads of regular infantry without even raising an alarm. Nobody’s fault. Wish it was. Then I could have them shot.”

“We gonna hit them back?” Idrian asked.

Tadeas shook his head. “The Fourth will deal with that. We just got new orders.” He scowled as he said this. “The Seventh is making a go at the ducal palace. General Stavri figures if we can capture that, we can force the duke to consider an early surrender. It’ll satisfy the bloodlust of the masses angry over Adriana’s death, and we’ll have suitably slapped Grent on the wrist for their political meddling.”

“Over bloody and quick.” Idrian nodded. “That’s what I like to hear. Are we helping the Seventh go after the palace?”

“That we are. From what I heard, the fighting is even hotter than what we saw yesterday.”

Idrian groaned. He liked the strategy; he just didn’t like the idea of spearheading it. But that was, he reminded himself, their job. To his surprise, Tadeas shoved something into his hand. It was a letter, still sealed with purple wax stamped with the Grappo silic sigil. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Letter from my nephew.”

Idrian broke the seal. It said:

“What does it say?” Tadeas asked.

Idrian shook his head, reminding himself that he’d promised Demir not to say a word about the phoenix channel to anyone. His heart was beating hard now, a pleasant tingle between his shoulders. Not only had Demir accepted his offer, but he’d done so quickly. With a working phoenix channel, Idrian could restore the sorcerous resonance in his eye. He wouldn’t need another master siliceer. Idrian might actually be able to save his sanity. He thought hard, back to a meeting at the duke’s palace some months ago where he’d gone along as a ceremonial guard, and realized that he’d actually seen this piece of cinderite. It was on display in the foyer of the palace.

He needed to be the first person through the front doors of the palace, and since he was a breacher that wasn’t completely unlikely. Never mind the brutal fighting. He’d do what needed to be done if it meant saving civilization – and his own damned sanity.